Reborn to Rewrite My Ending

When Ezra finally opened his eyes, the first word that escaped his lips was my name.

"Chloe..."

He jolted upright, eyes wild as they scanned the unfamiliar room. I floated nearby, watching him with my heart—or whatever I had left—caught in my throat.

His assistant, a frazzled young man with worry etched into every line of his face, rushed to his side. “Master Ezra! You’re awake! Don’t move too quickly—”

“Where is she? Chloe! She was here. I saw her.”

The assistant flinched, glancing nervously toward the gold-trimmed coffin placed just across the room. “Sir… Chloe Monroe is… she’s already gone. That’s her coffin, you… you brought her here.”

Ezra turned his head slowly, as if the reality hadn’t fully sunk in until his eyes landed on the still, beautiful form inside the glass-lidded coffin. He stumbled to his feet, disbelief quickly giving way to panic. “No, no—I saw her. She was here. She touched me.”

Wait… did he really see me? Was it real?

Ezra frantically looked around. “Chloe! I know you’re here! Please, I’m begging you—show yourself! Chloe... please…”

But I’m already right here. I'm in front of you. I reach out, wanting to scream, but instead, I clasp my hands over my mouth, my heart breaking as I watch him fall apart.

“Chloe! Please! I’m sorry… I’m sorry I wasn’t there!”

In desperation, he grabbed something from the nightstand—a photo. His hands shook as he stared at the image: a younger version of himself, awkward and chubby, standing at the back of a high school group photo. And there I was, smiling, surrounded by my friends, completely unaware he was in the shot.

“No way... Is that really Ezra…?” I whispered in shock.

It really was him. Ezra Sinclair. The boy I’d barely noticed in high school. The one I’d awkwardly turned down when he tried to talk to me… the one I had been shallow and cruel to. I hadn’t liked the way he looked.

Now, there he was, broken. He collapsed to the floor, clutching the photo to his chest as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"I'm so sorry, Chloe..." His voice trembled, raw with guilt. His hands shook as he stared at the photo, like he was trying to hold onto something that no longer existed.

His assistant rushed forward, panic in his eyes, but Ezra didn’t seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the picture, his breaths shallow, almost frantic. “I wasn’t there... I should’ve been there… If I hadn’t been in that coma… I could’ve saved you.”

He buried his face in his hands, unable to control the grief ripping through him. It wasn’t anger—just pure, helpless sorrow. My heart ached as I watched him fall apart, wishing more than anything I could comfort him.

I reached out, my fingers trembling, but when I tried to touch his shoulder, my hand passed right through him.

“I’m right here,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “Please, Ezra, don’t do this to yourself. It's not your fault.”

But he didn’t hear me.

---

I watch Ezra's world revolve around my dead body. Every breath he took, every step he took since waking up—it was all for me.

And it hurts to watch.

Time passed, but it felt like days blurred into weeks. People tried to reason with him—doctors, friends, even some of my old fans. They said it was time to bury me, that he needed to let go. But Ezra refused.

He refused food. Refused sleep. Refused life.

Then, one day, his sister, Elise, snapped.

“Wake the fuck up!” she screamed, slapping him hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. “She’s gone, Ezra! Chloe Monroe is dead! And you’re not far behind if you keep this up. You have surgery scheduled for Monday, and if you skip it again, you’ll die!”

He stared at her with empty eyes, his face unreadable.

“I’m not getting the surgery,” he said flatly.

“What?” Elise’s voice cracked with disbelief.

“I won’t do it,” he repeated, his tone devoid of emotion.

Elise’s anger flared, and in a split second, she ordered someone to take my body away from him. "Get the surgery, or you’ll never see her again."

“No!!” Ezra screamed, his voice breaking. “Try to take her from me, and I’ll end it. I’ll fucking kill myself. Do you hear me?”

Elise went pale. The room went dead silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. But she ordered the body removed anyway. Ezra locked himself in the room with a knife. They backed off.

Her desperation quickly turned manipulative. Elise even hired a woman who resembled me, hoping Ezra might imprint on her instead, anything to pull him back from the edge.

But when Ezra touched her, something inside him snapped. His eyes filled with horror, rage, and overwhelming grief, and in that moment, he nearly killed her.

That was the final straw.

“Do whatever the hell you want, Ezra,” Elise hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and grief. Tears glistened in her eyes as she took a step back. “If you want to waste what little time you have left, be my guest. I don't care anymore!”

With that, she stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

Even after all that, I stayed. I couldn’t leave him. Even if he couldn’t see me anymore.

Day after day, I tried to reach him. I whispered, begged, and pleaded, hoping, wishing that something, anything, would break through the emptiness that consumed him.

“Please, Ezra. Live. You don’t have to do this for me. Don’t throw everything away,” I begged, but nothing changed.

His condition worsened with each passing day. The illness he should’ve fought with surgery crept in slowly, poisoning him from the inside out. He grew paler, thinner—his once-vibrant presence dimming by the hour. But through it all, his focus remained fixed on me, or rather, on my body.

He refused to let it go.

The room grew cold, and despite all the pleas, his attention was always on the still form in the coffin. It was as though he couldn't move on. As if he couldn't bear to part with the only thing that reminded him of me.

And then one night, as the hours dragged on, I saw him lying beside my coffin, his hand resting gently over mine. His expression was hollow, consumed by sorrow.

He pressed a soft, trembling kiss to my lips, the tender gesture, almost fragile, as though he feared even my body might slip away from him.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Even if you never loved me back.”

His breathing slowed, soft and shallow, as if his body itself was giving up.

And then… it stopped.

“E-Ezra...?” I called out, panic rising in my chest.

He didn’t respond.

“Ezra!” I screamed, my voice cracking.

I rushed to him, my heart pounding, but there was no sign of life. His body lay still, unmoving. The room seemed to close in on me as his soul—

I was suddenly swallowed in darkness.

The room, the coffin, even Ezra’s still form disappeared, as I was yanked backward into a vortex of shadow. My ghostly form thrashed, weightless and powerless—until something deeper, older, and far more ancient than time itself whispered through the void:

“He followed you into death… now what will you do?”