Love is Gone

The moment I opened my eyes again, I knew something was different. The weight that had crushed my chest for so long, the pain that had followed me to my grave, was gone. The memory of it still burned—his rejection, his betrayal, my own desperate obsession—but the ache felt distant, like a storm that had passed, leaving only the aftermath behind.

I took a breath, fresh and full, and sat up in a bed that wasn’t familiar. A calendar on the wall read ten years earlier than I remembered. My heart raced as I pieced it together: I had been given a second chance.

In my first life, I had been consumed. My love for him—Daniel—was relentless, fierce, and blind. He was everything I thought I wanted. Beautiful, confident, and painfully out of reach. He never returned my feelings, never even entertained the thought of it. But that didn’t stop me. I chased him, my heart stubborn and foolish, thinking that love was a war I could win if I just fought hard enough.

When he finally rejected me, it wasn’t gentle. His words had cut deep, his disgust clear as he told me he could never feel the same. I had been humiliated, desperate to hurt him the way he hurt me. Blackmail. Manipulation. Anything to keep him close, even if it meant dragging both of us into ruin.

I had believed I could force him to love me. I was wrong.

In the end, I destroyed myself. The image of him with someone else—someone he had chosen freely—had been the final blow. I died heartbroken, consumed by a love that had never been real.

But this time… I would be different.

I stood in front of the mirror that morning, younger and unscarred by my mistakes. My reflection surprised me—there was a quiet beauty I hadn’t noticed before. Dark eyes sharp with determination. Features that were strong, refined. I had been so consumed with chasing him that I had never truly seen myself.

I vowed then that my life would be my own.

I threw myself into my studies. Hours spent in the library, mind focused, heart steady. I excelled where I had once faltered. Awards lined my shelves. I built friendships based on mutual respect, not manipulation. I found passions I had ignored—philosophy, architecture, literature. Each achievement, each small victory, filled me with a satisfaction I had never known in my first life.

And I was happy.

Then he returned.

Daniel walked into my life again one afternoon as if nothing had changed. The same broad shoulders, the same confident smirk. But this time, his eyes softened when they landed on me. He watched me in ways he never had before—his gaze lingering too long, his words tinged with curiosity and warmth.

At first, I didn’t believe it.

“Hey, Alex,” he said one day, leaning against the library table where I worked. “I was thinking… we should hang out sometime. Catch up.”

I stared at him, my heart a confusing mix of old wounds and newfound strength.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said quietly, turning back to my notes.

“Why not?” He laughed, as if my rejection was some playful game.

I looked him in the eyes, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the desperate pull that had once defined my existence. “Because I know how this ends.”

He blinked, confusion clouding his face. “What are you talking about?”

I didn’t explain. How could I? He couldn’t remember the pain he had caused. He didn’t know how I had chased him, ruined myself for him. He didn’t know the price I had paid for a love that had never been real.

But I remembered.

As the days passed, he pursued me. The tables had turned. He sought me out, his touch lingering on my arm, his words soft and inviting. There were moments when my heart wavered—when I saw glimpses of the boy I had once loved so fiercely. But I never let myself forget the truth.

One evening, he cornered me outside the lecture hall, his expression serious, almost desperate.

“Alex, I’m sorry if I hurt you before. I didn’t realize…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how I felt back then. But I’m different now.”

I felt a pang of something—regret, maybe. Sadness. But not love.

“I’m different too,” I whispered.

He reached for my hand, but I stepped back, tears stinging my eyes. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said, his voice soft.

“No,” I replied, my voice breaking. “But you do. In another life, I lost myself for you. I gave up everything I was because I thought you were the only thing that mattered. And I can’t… I won’t do that again.”

His face crumpled, confusion and hurt battling for control. “What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, my heart heavy but resolute. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for my love before, and you don’t deserve my anger now. But I can’t go back. I won’t.”

He watched me walk away, the weight of our shared past—one he would never fully understand—settling between us like a shadow.

And for the first time, I felt free.