Part 1You Loved Her While I Slept

When the devastating wildfires swept through the valley a few years after the earthquake that leveled our hometown, my fiancé and I decided to sponsor a high school girl from the hardest-hit area.

We didn’t know she would fall hopelessly, obsessively in love with him.

She clung to him, inserting herself into every corner of our lives. Preston used to look at her with undisguised disgust. "If I had known it would turn into this kind of mess, I never would have played the good Samaritan," he’d mutter.

But on the day of our wedding, she crashed the reception. In the ensuing struggle, she knocked over a massive steel lighting rig. I shoved Preston out of the way, taking the full, crushing weight of the metal myself. I was declared brain-dead.

The doctors told him I would likely never wake up.

And so, Preston hated her with a violent, consuming passion. Day and night, he dragged her to my hospital bed, forcing her to look at me, spitting the most venomous, soul-destroying words at her as penance.

But the day she finally broke, sobbing and whispering, "A life for a life, then," he panicked.

Trembling violently, he pressed his hands against her self-inflicted wound, screaming her name over and over.

"Lily, you owe me for the rest of your life. I didn't give you permission to die!"

She collapsed into his chest, weeping. And that time, Preston didn't push her away.

They held each other tightly at the foot of my bed. Neither of them noticed the single tear that slipped from the corner of my unmoving eye.

* * *

The attending physician had to call five times before Preston finally arrived at the hospital.

He shoved the door open, then froze in the threshold, his body rigid, terrified to take a step closer.

Pale and weak, I propped myself up slightly against the pillows and offered him a faint smile.

"Hey, Preston. It's been a while."

He swayed on his feet, his eyes instantly flooding with red. He closed the distance and grabbed my hand, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.

"Margot... the doctor said you were awake, but I couldn't believe it. It's really you... You're really..."

I looked up at the face I knew better than my own.

The night nurse had just told me I’d been in a coma for exactly five years.

Half a decade hadn't left many physical marks on Preston, but the boy I knew was gone. His messy hair was sharply styled. The fiery, eager eyes I loved were hidden behind sleek gold-rimmed glasses, and his signature faded grey hoodies had been replaced by a meticulously tailored suit.

He looked polished. Expensive. Like the ruthless corporate protagonist of a legal drama.

To me, he just looked like a stranger.

I was about to speak when a figure darted past the doorway and collapsed by the edge of my bed, sobbing hysterically.

"Margot, oh my god, you're awake! I'm so glad. What happened back then, it was my fault... I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."

I flinched, startled. But Preston was already stepping forward, his brow furrowed as he yanked her up by the arm without a second thought.

"The floor is filthy. What are you doing down there? Stand up and use your words."

He shot a sideways glance at me. "Margot has a good heart, she won't hold it against you. Just don't do anything stupid like this again, Lily."

Lily looked up at him through tear-soaked lashes. Preston’s jaw tightened, and he awkwardly averted his eyes.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing the words.

Preston seemed to have forgotten to ask if I wanted to forgive her.

He poured me a glass of warm water, then shot Lily a sharp look. "Go handle Margot's discharge papers. And be quick about it."

She turned to leave, but he called out to her, his brow knitting again. He slipped off his suit jacket and draped it roughly over her shoulders.

"Look at the weather outside. Why would you wear a skirt that short? Honestly, Lily, do you ever think?"

When the room finally emptied, leaving just the two of us, Preston sat quietly in the chair beside me.

I looked out the window. Where there had once been empty lots in my memory, gleaming skyscrapers now pierced the skyline.

It was just like Preston. The man who used to share every passing thought, every frustration, and every joy with me had redirected all his anger, tenderness, and exasperation to someone else. For me, he only had this suffocating silence.

After the paperwork was signed, I walked quietly beside Preston as he led the way to the parking garage. He spent the entire walk complaining about Lily—how sloppy her case files were, how careless she was with scheduling.

He didn't stop until he unlocked a sleek, late-model Audi that I didn't recognize.

Without missing a beat, Lily opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat. It wasn't until they both had their seatbelts clicked in that Preston seemed to snap out of a trance.

He looked back at me, sudden panic in his eyes, and scrambled to open the rear door for me. "The old Civic finally died on me. The dealership gave me a good trade-in value, so I upgraded."

A delicate pink dreamcatcher hung from the rearview mirror.

The car’s interior didn’t smell like the crisp freesia scent we used to share. Even though it was faint, I recognized the warm, heavy notes of vanilla. It was Lily’s perfume.

The drive was agonizingly silent.

I stared out the window at the unfamiliar storefronts and altered streetscapes. When he finally pulled up to our apartment building, he turned to me with an expression twisted in guilt.

"Margot, you just got out of the hospital, so go upstairs and get some rest. I have to meet a client right now. It's a massive case, and I really can't reschedule. I'm so sorry."

I stood on the sidewalk and watched his taillights disappear down the block with Lily in the front seat. I looked up at the high-rise, my eyes burning.

This was the home we had meticulously renovated right before the wedding.

I had imagined a thousand times how we would walk hand-in-hand through the courtyard, carrying our overpriced groceries upstairs to cook a messy, chaotic dinner together.

If the accident had never happened.

I unlocked the front door. The furniture was exactly where I left it five years ago. Even the physical desk calendar on the coffee table was still flipped to the date of our wedding week.

It was as if time had stood perfectly still.

But the refrigerator was unplugged. And when I opened the closet in the master bedroom, it was completely empty.

At two in the morning, I woke up with a gasp from a nightmare. I reached out, my hand brushing against the freezing, empty sheets beside me. The apartment was pitch black.

I found my ancient, out-of-date cell phone in my overnight bag and dialed the number etched into my bones.

"Preston. Where are you?"

His voice was thick with sleep and confusion on the other end of the line.

"What? I'm at home."

The tears I’d been holding back all day finally broke, spilling over my cheeks.

"Which home?"