Unattainable

I married the same man seven times. He had divorced me seven times for his first love, just so he could spend vacations with her freely, and so she wouldn't have to deal with rumors or gossip. The first time we divorced, I tried to stop him by hurting myself. I ended up in the hospital, but he didn't even come to see me. The second time, I lowered myself to apply as his assistant at his company, just so I could see him more. By the sixth divorce, I had already learned to pack my things quietly and leave our apartment without a fuss. My meltdowns, my constant giving in, and my numb compromises only led to one thing: him coming back to marry me on schedule, and repeating the same old games. Until now. When I heard that his first love was returning to the country, I handed him the divorce papers first. As usual, he made a plan to remarry me later, but this time, he had no idea that I was leaving for good.

On my wedding day, my fiance's first love appeared at the wedding ceremony wearing the exact same haute couture gown as mine. I watched them stand together at the entrance, greeting the guests as if they were the bride and groom. Maintaining a calm expression, I complimented them, saying they looked like the perfect couple—beauty and brains, a match made in heaven. She burst into tears and fled the scene. He, however, didn't hesitate to humiliate me in front of everyone, accusing me of being petty and narrow-minded. When the wedding banquet was over, he left for what was supposed to be our honeymoon—with her by his side. I didn't argue or cause a scene. Instead, I quietly booked an appointment for an abortion.

Ang boyfriend ko ay forensic doctor. Nakidnap ako at may nakadikit na bomba—meron na lamang sampung minuto bago sumabog. Ang mga nagkidnap sa akin ay pinilit na tawagan ko ang boyfriend ko, pero napagalitan lamang ako. “Ano bang kailangan mo, Michelle? Anong pinaplano mo, ginagamit ang buhay mo bilang palusot dahil lang nagseselos ka?” “Ang pusa ni Vi ay hindi makuha mula sa puno ng tatlong araw na. Mahal niya ito na parang ang buhay nito ay buhay niya! Kung idedelay mo ako sa pagligtas dito, magiging mamamatay tao ka!” Nakarinig ako ng malanding boses sa kabilang dulo ng tawag. “Salamat para dito, Kev. Ang husay mo!” Nakilala ko ang boses na iyon—pagmamay ari ito ng childhood friend ng boyfriend ko. Tinext ko ang boyfriend ko ng sasabog na ang bomba. “Paalam habang buhay. Pinagdadasal ko na hindi na tayo magkita pang muli sa ibang buhay.”

I decided to cut all ties with Julia Summers. She said she was busy with work, so I quietly packed my suitcase in our bedroom. Then she brought her so-called true love, Henry Stone, home. Right then and there, I asked for a divorce. In my past life, I’d poured my heart and soul into this family and nearly drained every last bit of our savings. Even then, on my fortieth birthday, my own children knelt before me, begging me to let Julia’s dying lover be buried in the Summers Estate. I looked at Julia and said, "You once told me you’d only ever love me. Have you really forgotten?" Her eyes turned red. "I’ll stay with you," she said, her voice trembling. "But Henry just wants a name. Why would you hold a grudge against someone who’s dying?" When I opened my eyes again, I was twenty-five. This time, I’d give them what they wanted and finally give myself what I deserved.

To save my wife, my lungs were pierced by a knife, leaving lasting consequences. When I fell ill and struggled to breathe, she said I was dramatic and went on a business trip with her childhood friend. When she returned, I found a man's underwear in her suitcase that did not belong to me. I calmly made the call: "Director, I've made up my mind. I'm going to assist in Avrika." Later, at the airport, she bent down, publicly lowering her head and begging for my forgiveness.

After I became a vegetable, Samuel kept me alive for two years with all sorts of tubes. I thought he couldn’t bear to let me go—until his true love returned to the country. He took my corneas and transplanted them to her. Right in front of me, he spoke to her with the utmost tenderness: “Don't worry; you'll be fine. These eyes have been prepared for you for two years.” As a result, I had an adverse reaction after the surgery and passed away. When he heard the news, his eyes turned crimson with rage, and he nearly smashed the hospital: ”Didn't you say there wouldn’t be any problems?!”

Before the mission, I ask Ryan Jamison one last time, "Will you marry me?" He pauses for a moment before saying, "Alright." The system and I freeze. "Oh no," we say in unison. I'm told that once I get rejected a hundred times, I'll return to the real world. Turns out, it's nothing but false alarm. In my final mission, I accidentally become the stand-in for his first love. Ryan spends three days with her before he finally remembers me. But by then, all he hears is that I've died in the line of duty.

One week after my death, my husband, Christopher Ford, was making love on our bed with his one true love. His face showed pure satisfaction. "Finally, I don’t have to deal with that bar hostess anymore." Later, he held my belongings, weeping with regret. "Phoebe, why haven’t you come back?" It seemed he had forgotten that he had already pushed me to my death that night. I was forced to donate my bone marrow to his one true love, and I died, along with our unborn child.

The seventh time Claire Fisher bailed on our marriage license appointment, I finally cut her out of my life—for good. From then on, if she was at a party, I wasn't. When she was scheduled to perform at our college's anniversary celebration, I made sure to leave early. The moment my company announced a collaboration with hers, I resigned without a second thought. Even on Christmas Eve, when she showed up at my parents' house with gifts, I slipped out with a half-hearted excuse about "visiting a friend." I blocked her number. Deleted her from my contacts. Burned every bridge and salted the earth behind me. No calls. No texts. No social media. I didn't reach out. She couldn't reach me. Simple as that. For the better part of my life, I was hopelessly in love with her—waiting on her, caring for her, putting her first in every way that mattered. I gave her all of me without ever holding back. But after the seventh time she left me sitting alone at the City Hall, something inside me broke. I was done. If that meant spending the rest of my life alone, so be it. Better that than sitting in an empty apartment, listening to the silence, holding on to hope for someone who never planned to show up.

To make up for past regrets with his first love, my husband, Pierce Ronan, lied that he could see everyone’s lifespan. He told me I had sixty years left, but his first love, Jessica Stone, had only seven days to live. So, for those seven days, he said he had to fulfill the promises of their youth. He brought her home, cared for her, and when they went back to their old college campus to relive their love, I didn’t protest. When he confessed his love to her and planned the wedding of the century, asking me to be the bridesmaid, I didn’t raise my voice. It wasn’t until he wanted to break the final taboo — in our marital bedroom — that he looked at me with guilt in his eyes and begged me to move out. The housemaids watched, snickering behind their hands, but I only smiled and nodded in agreement. I packed my bags, carried our child, and moved into the guest room next door. Seeing how obedient I remained, Pierce was touched. “I promise, this will be the last time I wrong you. Once Jessica passes, I’ll make it up to you.” What he didn’t know was that I had already seen through his lies. What he also didn’t know was that the one truly dying of cancer, the one with only seven days left to live, was me. Three days remained. Then, I would be gone.