Married my Ex's uncle after betrayed

The nurse whispered in my ear that I had a chronic illness, not life-threatening but requiring long-term treatment and quite expensive. I could no longer hear her; my mind was replaying the accident from three years ago.

Three years ago, the rain was pouring down, the road was like a river.

I remember the wipers couldn't keep up, and the headlights illuminated the thick smoke before they could even react. I almost drove right through it. Really, just a hair's breadth away.

But then I saw a car crashed into the guardrail, flames roaring from its hood, and my mind went blank.

I don't remember how I made that decision. I frantically flung open the car door, grabbed the man inside by the collar, and pulled him out with all my might. He was much heavier than he looked. My knees slammed twice on the wet asphalt to pull him away from the wreckage.

He was almost unconscious. There was blood on his temple, his breathing was rapid and weak. His hand touched my wrist in the darkness��a weak, desperate grip.

"Who are you?"

His voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. Before I could answer, the ambulance lights stained the rain red and white, paramedics shouted, and before I could reply, he released my hand. I gave them time to process it. I didn't tell them my name.

I just stood in the rain, my heart pounding, watching them lift him into the ambulance. Then I got back in my car and drove home, trembling all the way.

I never thought of him again.

Until fourteen months ago, I met Caleb Sterling at a mutual friend's dinner party. The line of his jaw made my heart skip a beat. It wasn't until he smiled at me across the table that I realized: I've seen you somewhere before.

It wasn't until our third date that it dawned on me. But by then, I couldn't resist his love.

---

Three days ago, I found this photo while searching for my gray scarf deep in our shared closet.

The photo showed a woman, smiling and turning, frozen in mid-air. She had dark hair, bright eyes, and wore a black leather jacket��exactly the same style, even the worn patch at the elbow was exactly the same as the one I wore that night.

My heart sank.

��Caleb.�� I took the photo and went outside. ��Who is this?��

He looked up from his laptop, his expression changing. Gentle, almost pious. ��She saved my life,�� he said. ��Three years ago. I never knew who she was, but I��I somehow found this photo. I��ve kept it ever since.��

The room seemed to tilt.

��Caleb.�� My voice sounded strange. ��That coat. I have the exact same coat. I was there that night. It was me����

��Stop.�� His voice turned abruptly cold, and I was interrupted before I could catch my breath.

��I��m not lying. I pulled you out of the car. You grabbed my wrist and asked who I was, then the ambulance����

��Aria.�� He stood up, the gentleness in his voice vanishing instantly. ��I don��t know what this is, but don��t do this.��

��What for? I��m telling the truth����

"You're jealous." He sneered, as if announcing a diagnosis. "Unfortunately, your story is too convincing."

These words struck me like a hammer blow. I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. ��Caleb, please listen to me����

��I don��t want to hear it.��

��It was raining heavily that day, and you were driving a silver-gray sedan. I was wearing a black overcoat, and the sleeves were ripped at the elbows. You grabbed my wrist and asked me��who are you? Then you passed out.�� I finished speaking in one breath, my voice trembling, but I stared intently into his eyes.

��Enough.�� He grabbed the keys from the counter. The door didn��t slam shut, it just opened a crack, but the sound felt like a tear in my chest.

I stood in the apartment, holding a photograph. The woman in the photograph looked like my ghost. I didn��t know how to breathe.

---

Now I sit on the hospital steps, the blood on my knees dried, a diagnosis report I haven��t fully processed tucked into my coat pocket. The city around me seems nonexistent, constantly turning.

Chronic illness. The doctor said it��s manageable. But the word "chronic disease" was like a boulder, sunk into my bones, impossible to shake off.

In the elevator going downstairs, I kept crying. When the elevator doors opened, I stopped crying, because I couldn't do anything anymore. A hollow silence, as if echoing faintly.

I remembered Caleb's back as he left me in the parking lot. His straight back. He didn't look back.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number. Then another vibration��a text message from Vanessa.

"I heard you've been hanging out with him. You really don't know when to stop, do you? You don't deserve him. In his eyes,you are a thief."

Thief.

The word appeared starkly on the screen, ugly and deliberate.

Then, the image loaded.

Caleb and Vanessa. I recognized the bar��the dim amber lights, the exposed brick walls. He held her, her lips pressed against his, both of them bare-shouldered. The timestamp in the corner indicated tonight.

Hours later, he made me fall to the ground in the parking lot and walked away without looking back.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred. Not because of tears��I think I had already cried. Something else. My eyes felt like they were weighed down by a stone, and a sharp buzzing filled my ears.

Somewhere in this city, Caleb was with a woman who had not only stolen my story but also what I meant to him. And I, sitting here, with my chronic illness diagnosis in my pocket, blood on my knees, had nothing left.

I picked up my phone again, checked the timestamp again, and looked at her message again.

Thief.

A cold, clear feeling washed over me. Not anger��at least not yet. But a calmer feeling. The kind of tranquility that comes before a decision is made.

I knew the truth. I always had.

The question is, am I finally ready to get him to listen?