I still remember the exact timbre of that phone call-one year post - breakup, my thumb hovering over Thomas Vance's contact like a trigger. The second he answered, two sentences tore out of my throat:

"Congrats on the wedding."

"You swore to be my pallbearer, remember?"

The moment I hung up, his voice seeped through the receiver like ice water: "Daisy, why force me to track you down like this?"

My knuckles swiped the gore from the phone screen, smearing his name-Thomas Vance-into a bloody blur. "Sorry," I mumbled, staring at the ceiling as if he could see my shaking shoulders through the plaster.

His silence stretched into a razor - sharp laugh: "We've been over for twelve months. Get it through your head."

As if I could forget. That torrential night is branded in my memory: him standing on my doorstep, rainwater dripping from his coat as he said "it's done" without meeting my eyes. I clung to his sleeve till dawn, only to learn from neighbors he'd boarded a flight to Tokyo that same morning-no explanation, no farewell, just a half - filled box of origami boats on my nightstand.

If not for that call, we'd have remained strangers in each other's memories.

Rain lashed the window, fogging the glass like my blurry vision. "I get it," I croaked after an eternity.

"Then do us both a favor," he snarled. "If you're set on dying, do it where I won't find your body." The dial tone buzzed in my ear like an angry wasp.

That's when the phone lit up again-an international number from Belrith. "Ms. Winters," a clinical voice said, "your euthanasia consultation... we had to use your secondary contact."

Three hours later, I collapsed into a train seat bound for Belrith, forehead pressed to the frosHira Jones window. The distant Alps loomed like gray shadows, their peaks mocking my crumbling resolve. The biopsy report burned in my bag: terminal pancreatic cancer, metastasis beyond treatment. Doctors offered sympathetic looks; I stuffed the paper away like a shameful secret.

Then, in the hospital corridor, I saw him. Thomas Vance in the black leather jacket I'd bought him, looking as if he'd stepped out of a nightmare-until his eyes met mine, hard as granite.

Memories exploded: folded paper boats, seven years of goodnight texts, the night he took a red - eye train 600 kilometers to hold me during a panic attack. I'd thought we were invincible, but all he left was a slammed door and a broken promise.

My legs gave way, but he only sneered: "I told you-stay out of my sight."

"I'm here for tests," I whispered, nails biting into my palms.

"Spare me the lies." His jaw ticked. "I made it clear: I don't love you. Following me to Belrith is just sad."

Before I could retort, a voice chimed: "Tommy."

A brunette in a sapphire - blue dress looped her arm through his, a blue diamond ring winking on her finger. "Who's this?" she asked, head tilted like a curious kitten.

Quinn Carver. His fiancée. The gemstone on her hand cut deeper than any scalpel.

"Getting married?" My voice cracked.

Quinn beamed: "He proposed last week!"

I forced a smile: "When's the wedding?"

Thomas's gaze pinned me like a butterfly. "June 30th," he said flatly.

My heart shattered. June 30th was the date I'd scheduled my euthanasia.

I know the date June 30th is seared into my soul.

It's my birthday-Daisy Winters's last birthday.

Three years ago today, Thomas Vance proposed with a ring made of braided silver.

I'll never forget that night: string lights tangled in the oak tree, a cake dotted with edible stars in my favorite constellation. Twenty - three - year - old Thomas knelt on our apartment floor, pushing a shoebox toward me: "This is the mixtape you made me, these are the train tickets from our first trip, and this envelope has every love letter you ever wrote me."

Moonlight washed over his boyish face as he took a shaky breath.

"I thought a proposal needed a grand setting, but then I realized the only perfect place is wherever you are. I know you've always dreamed of Belrith, but I can't wait another second. We'll get married there. Right now, I just need to know-"

"Daisy Winters, will you be my wife?"

The memory plays in slow motion as I stare at him now-still the same chiseled features, but his eyes hold all the warmth of a frozen lake.

I inhale until my lungs ache, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass. "Congrats to you both. Hope you're happy."

Wind howls through the hospital corridor, like someone's ghost is wailing.

At the euthanasia agency, the clerk slides my papers back: "For the procedure, a family member must-"

"I'm alone," I cut in.

He sighs, pushing a calendar: "You have Seven - two hours. Make them count."

The second I step outside, my phone vibrates-Thomas's name flashes. My thumb hovers over answer, but a sugary voice beats me to it:

"Hi, it's Quinn. Thomas and I are dress - shopping tomorrow. His taste is tragic, and I have no girlfriends here. Will you help?"

I freeze, but Thomas's growl cuts through: "Be at the salon at ten. Address sent."

Seconds later, a text arrives with the boutique's name-and a five - thousand - dollar transfer.

"Payment. Don't upset Quinn. That's an order."

The next day, I sit on a satin couch while Quinn twirls in lace. Thomas nods at every gown, his smile softer than I've seen in years.

My mind drifts to when he showed me a magazine clipping: "This is the dress I'll buy you. The neckline matches the tattoo behind your ear."

Back then, his words felt like sunlight. Now, I'm staring at Quinn holding up a gown-the exact Style from that clipping, with the same star - shaped beadwork.

"Thomas hates this one," she pouts, shoving the lookbook at me. "Tell him it's timeless."

My fingers tremble on the page. He's rejecting the dress I once called my dream because of me.

"You remember-" I start, but he cuts me off:

"Trends change. That Style's obsolete."

Obsolete. Like our seven years together. Like the life we planned.

I force a laugh that comes out as a wheeze. "Yeah, totally outdated."

Just then, a drop of blood lands on the photo, blooming like a tiny rose. I wipe it away, but Thomas's scowl slices through me:

"What's your problem?"

My pulse slammed to a halt, and I whirled to hide the panic twisting my face. But Thomas Vance was already blocking my path, snatching the lookbook from my grasp. His frown deepened at the bloodstain blooming on its pages-and in that moment, I realized he cared more about the damned book than me.

"I-I'm sorry... I stained it by accident," my voice shook. How was I still speaking?

Quinn Carver thrust a tissue into my hand, shooting Thomas a teasing grin: "Since when do you care about a lookbook? Miss Winters, should we call an ambulance?"

I shook my head, pressing the tissue to my nose. "Just a cold and some heat- I'll be fine." Like I'd ever burden my almost-fiancé-my ex-with my terminal diagnosis.

Thomas Vance stayed silent, his eyes burning holes in my pale face.

In the restroom, I stemmed the bleeding. When I returned, Quinn had changed into a different gown-not the one I'd once dreamed of wearing. She twirled before Thomas, beaming: "How do I look?"

His gaze was soft, but it only reflected her. I felt like drowning. "I need to go," I mumbled.

"Wait!" Quinn called. "Thomas and I have no friends in Belrith. Won't you be my bridesmaid?"

My fingers trembled. "My visa expires then." I couldn't stand beside my ex on his wedding day.

Quinn sighed. "What a shame. Let's meet up another time."

"Sure," I whispered, grabbing my bag. I glanced back at Thomas-he sat on the sofa, never looking my way. Cold as the day he dumped me.

The automatic doors clicked shut, severing us into separate worlds.

Tears stung my eyes as I dragged myself toward the hotel. Belrith's streets were quiet, but passersby smiled carelessly-I'd lost my smile long ago.

A tiny tavern caught my eye. On impulse, I stepped inside. I used to love drinking before I fell ill. Maybe one last binge... but a single bottle made me nauseous.

At the counter, I noticed a wall of couple photos. The bearded owner smiled: "Couples get free drinks if they pose."

I was about to say I was alone when my eyes locked on the top photo: Thomas Vance and Quinn Carver, dated "2024.4.21".

That was before we broke up!

My brain went numb, a chill creeping through my veins. The owner chattered on, but I couldn't hear.

Staggering outside, a stranger grabbed my arm. "I've watched you. Come home with me."

"Let go!" I struggled, but he yanked me toward his car-

A figure stormed forward, punching him to the ground. "Leave her," Thomas Vance snarled, voice like ice.

As the stranger fled, Thomas frowned at me. "Belrith's taverns aren't safe. If you can't protect yourself, go home-stop playing the damsel."

I froze, then croaked: "Glad it was this tavern. Otherwise, you wouldn't have saved me."

He scoffed. "Say what you want."

I laughed through tears. "I didn't know you were with Quinn on March 11, 2024."

His eyes darkened. A stab of pain hit my chest. "Thomas Vance... so you cheated."

He paused, then said flatly: "I fell for Quinn while we were still together."

My heart shattered. I thought I was past the pain, but his words cut deeper than ever. Tears spilled over. "I understand," I bit out.

I turned to leave, but my vision blurred. I collapsed.

Vaguely, I heard Thomas shout my name.