Cerita Pendek Melodramatic Romance & Novel Best Friend Regret

I was slow by nature, always a beat behind in matters of love. It was Julian who loved me, who took me exactly as I was, who married me against everyone's objections. I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. Until the fifth year of our marriage, when I stumbled onto the secret between Julian and my sister. They'd been carrying on behind my back for a long time. They'd even had the gall to make a baby together. He ruffled my hair, gentle as ever, his voice soft and doting. "I've fallen for your sister. The same way I once fell for you." "You could be generous about it. Accept her. Accept us." Every drop of blood in me seemed to freeze, and the tears wouldn't stop. I didn't scream. I didn't fall apart. I just shut the door and walked away. But Julian was the one who lost his mind. Six months later, when I still assumed the two of them were long since married with a baby, he was the one crying, begging me not to leave, like a dog begging for scraps.

Three years ago, my best friend was hit by a car trying to save me. She had been in a coma ever since. I sat by her hospital bed, holding her hand. "Serena, you promised you'd be my maid of honor, remember? Julian and I finally set the date. Please wake up soon, okay? I miss you so much." My choked sobbing was cut short by a phone call. The nurse was asking me to come pay next month's hospital fees. But when I came back, I heard the voice I had been desperately waiting three years to hear. "Julian, you told me to wait for you while you broke things off with her." "I've waited three years for you! She comes to see me every single day, and all I can do is lie here." "Now you two are getting married. What about me!"

During our beach vacation, my wife, Carla Locke, lets her guy best friend, Alex Dugan, rub sunscreen all over her. "What have you been eating lately? Feels like you've gone up a cup size." The moment I see Alex's hand lingering on Carla's chest, the drink slips from my hand and shatters on the ground. Carla gets upset and tells me off for being so insecure. "We're just messing around. Why do you always overthink everything?" Alex shoots me a challenging look. "Don't be upset, Hubert. Carla and I are just friends. Sometimes, I wish I'd been born a woman. Then, people wouldn't keep misunderstanding our relationship." Carla leans into his embrace and shakes her head as she looks at me. "I wish you'd stop being so sensitive about this. Stop trying to ruin our friendship." However, Carla and Alex don't know that I'm from another world. After completing my mission in the previous world, the system rewards me with one wish. Since they insist they're just best friends, I'll be more than happy to grant his wish to become a woman.

During my wedding, someone suggests that we play the game "one dollar and 50 cents". The host will call out an amount that the players will have to match by forming groups. I draw the 50-cent straw, and so does my best friend, Rebecca Cross, who is also the group favorite. My fiance, Ian Chilton, his childhood friend, Richard Price, his older sister, Anne Chilton, and my stepsister, Chelsea Whitmore, all draw one-dollar straws. For the first round, we need to make up a total of 1.50 dollars. I make a beeline toward Ian, but he gazes distractedly at Rebecca. It isn't until he is assured that she won't be eliminated that he finally loosens his painfully tight grip on my hand. Before I can truly feel my disappointment, the second round begins. This time, we need to make up a total of five dollars. Everyone instinctively surges toward Rebecca. I don't pester Ian this time, and he naturally fails to notice that I've been left out. It isn't until the host reminds them that they're 50 cents short that they reluctantly let me into their group. For the third round, we need to make up 2.50 dollars. It's clear that the six of us can conveniently form two groups of said amount, yet they debate heatedly over who gets to be in the group with Rebecca. As time is running out, Richard and Chelsea finally walk reluctantly toward me, having lost in a game of rock-paper-scissors. In the final round, we need to make up 4.50 dollars. As soon as the whistle is blown, they crowd together merrily. Ian even considerately wraps his arm around Rebecca's shoulders out of fear that she'll be jostled. Meanwhile, I'm knocked to the floor by the crowd, my palms digging deeply into splinters sticking out of the wooden floor paneling. From start to finish, nobody spares me a glance. In that instant, everything feels pointless to me. When we played hide-and-seek as children, they only realized I hadn't been "found" after nightfall. When we visited the amusement park as adults, they would always forget to buy my ticket. All things considered, it simply isn't polite to keep trying to fit into a small group that doesn't have room for me.

A month before our wedding, I couldn't sleep. I picked up my fiancé's phone and found a password-protected album. I hesitated for a moment, then opened it. The album was packed with hundreds of photos, all of the same person. There were shots of her posing at Yosemite, drinking coffee outside the office, even one of her... asleep. My heart went cold. I didn't just know this woman. I knew her well. She was my best friend, Mia Porter. Tears were already streaming down my face. Eight years together. I'd been by Julian Hale's side from when he was a photography assistant all the way to becoming an established photojournalist. He never once took a photo of me, and even when I asked, he always refused. I thought he was sticking to some kind of professional principle. Turns out, the person he wanted to photograph just wasn't me. Just then, my phone buzzed. An account I'd turned on post notifications for had updated. Mia had updated her Instagram: "My favorite photographer finally agreed to take me to France! Can't wait for all the gorgeous shots. Any ideas for cute matching outfits with a European vibe?" I sat there in a daze for a long time before I quietly got up, slipped off my engagement ring, and booked a flight home. Eight years. I was finally free from walking on eggshells, terrified of crossing his so-called principles. Finally free from waiting at home, ready to cook him a hot meal the moment he walked through the door. If there was no room for me behind his lens, then I would step into a world without him and live a life that was truly my own.

When I was ten years old, I suddenly gained the ability to see red threads connecting people’s heads. Only those who had actually slept together would be bound by this unavoidable red line. Over the years, two extra red threads popped up over my father’s head, driving my mother to threaten to file for divorce again and again. Because of this, loyalty became the single most important thing I looked for in a partner. In the end, I chose Jasper—a modest, reserved man whose head was completely clean. On the night before our wedding, my bridesmaids hosted a bachelorette party. We played a game where whoever lost had to hand over their phone for the rest of us to snoop through. When it was my maid of honor Jean’s turn, she clutched her phone tightly, her face flushing red as she bashfully giggled. “Don’t look at mine! He wore me out so late last night. Those photos are definitely not fit for public viewing.” Everyone teased her for keeping her relationship so secretive, since no one had ever met her boyfriend. I was just about to step in and smooth things over when I suddenly saw a bright red thread stretch straight out from the top of her head. It wove right through the crowd and anchored itself directly onto my fiancé, Jasper. Yet, when he dropped me off at home last night, his head had been entirely clean. In fact, just half an hour ago, he had sent me a text. [Aria, I’ve saved myself for you for twenty-five years. On our wedding night tomorrow, I can finally have you. I love you!] I looked over at Jasper standing outside the door, staring at me with deep affection, and then back at Jean, whose face was glowing with passion. I raised my glass and clinked it gently against hers. “Jean, is your boyfriend’s last name Cook?”

I had been dating my boyfriend, Julian Hayes, for four years, yet my best friend Fiona Blake still looked more like his girlfriend than I did. Whenever the three of us went furniture shopping, the sales associate would hand Julian and Fiona a catalog for couples. Whenever we went out for fondue, the server would ask if Julian and Fiona wanted a photo together. At the beach, a stranger once handed me her phone and asked, "Would you mind taking a picture of your friend and his girlfriend?" I smiled, took her phone, and raised it to take the picture. On the screen, Julian and Fiona looked every bit like a couple. Fiona always brushed it off. "We just have similar face shapes. It's a coincidence." Julian always reassured me. "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. You're my only girlfriend." And year after year, I believed him. By our fourth year together, I started pushing him to finally set a wedding date. He said he was too busy and promised we'd set the date the following month. But when the next month came, he had another excuse. Fiona's visa was about to expire. She wanted to stay in the United States, and the easiest way to get a green card was through marriage. I stared at him. "And so?" He was silent for a long moment before finally answering. "I'll marry her first and sponsor her application. It's only a formality. Once she gets her green card, we'll get divorced." For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "And what about me?" He answered without hesitation. "Just give me a few years. It'll be over before you know it." A week later, Fiona posted a photo on Instagram. She held up their marriage certificate and leaned against Julian's shoulder, smiling so widely that her eyes crinkled. The caption read, "As of today, it isn't a coincidence. It's fate." I went back through years of messages. That was when I finally realized the truth. Julian had never once told anyone I was his girlfriend. Whenever strangers mistook Fiona for his girlfrien