Chapter 1

I time-travelled back to the third year of my marriage. Freya Spears threw the dinner I cooked straight into the trash.

She said, "Jonah, stop trying to tie me down with your cooking."

In my previous life, I spent years trying to explain myself.

This time, I took off my apron and slid the divorce papers across the table to her.

"Sign it," I said.

*****

The range hood was still humming, and the tomato soup in the pot was bubbling away. The sweet and sour steam hit my face.

I gripped the spatula, a fresh burn mark on the back of my hand.

The door lock clicked three times.

Freya pushed the door open, her stilettos clicking across the entryway tiles. Her coat was draped over her arm, and she had her phone pressed to her ear.

"No need to pick me up, Paxton. I'm home," she said.

As she spoke, her gaze swept right past me, not even pausing.

I turned down the heat, and the last bubble in the soup popped, splattering red oil onto the stove.

That night in my previous life, I made all her favorite dishes and set them out on the table, quietly asking if she was tired from work.

She sat down, took a couple of bites, then got a call from Paxton. She grabbed her bag and left.

That night, I chased her downstairs, got soaked in the rain, and still held the umbrella for her.

She glanced back at me, her eyes full of nothing but annoyance.

"Jonah, can you stop being so clingy?" she snapped.

At that moment, she was still in that beige coat, still on the phone, still saying she was home, just like before.

But this time, I was the one who took off my apron first and hung it on the back of the chair.

Freya hung up and finally glanced at the table.

Four dishes and a soup, just like always.

Steamed fish, steak, greens, chili soup, and egg drop soup were the only foods she could eat when her stomach acted up in the past.

She frowned.

"Didn't I tell you not to wait for me to eat tonight?"

"Yeah," I replied.

I poured the soup into a thermos and closed the lid tight.

She froze for a moment, caught off guard.

"Why are you putting it away?" Freya asked.

"I'm taking it to work tomorrow," I replied.

Her fingers stopped on the clasp of her bag.

I never used to act like this.

Back then, if she said she wasn't eating, I'd reheat the food again and again, wait until 2 AM, and finally sit alone at the table, finishing the cold leftovers myself.

Back then, I thought loving someone meant making myself small, down to the dust, hoping maybe one day, if she looked down, she'd notice me.

But after I died in my previous life, I saw her sorting through my things.

She came across the stomach medicine I'd tucked away in the drawer, the receipts for the ten years I'd paid for her mother's care, and the photos of me visiting her father's grave every year.

She only paused for a few seconds.

Then she opened her diary and wrote on the last page: [If I'd married Paxton back then, would my life have been easier?]

Those words stabbed into my chest, deeper than any needle in the hospital bed.

I stood in the kitchen, my fingers brushing the edge of the thermos. The plastic lid was still warm.

Freya walked over and set her bag down on the dining chair.

"Jonah, you're doing it again," she said.

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Acting all pitiful," she replied.

She stared at me, her voice low.

"I never asked you to cook for me, or wait for me, or be nice to me. Every time you do this, it's like I'm the one who owes you."

I just looked at her.

Her expression was cold and distant, hair pulled back, lips almost colorless.

In my previous life, I loved this side of her, always telling myself she just didn't know how to show her feelings.

But now I knew that she simply didn't love me. There were no excuses for it.

I turned on the faucet and rinsed the oil off my hands.

"You don't owe me anything," I said.

Freya's shoulders relaxed a little, like she was waiting for me to keep apologizing.

I dried my hands and picked up the manila envelope from the study.

The manila envelope landed on the table with a soft thud.

Her gaze dropped to it.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Divorce papers," I replied.

The living room went quiet.

The range hood stopped humming, and the sound of traffic outside seeped through the window, pounding in my ears.

Freya didn't move.

I slid the papers across the table to her, then picked up a pen and set it on the right side of the first page.

I said, "I paid the down payment on the house before we got married, so I'll compensate you for the part we paid together after the wedding, just like the law says.

"The car's yours, and we'll split the savings. Starting next month, I won't be paying for your mom's nursing home anymore. You'll have to handle that yourself."

She finally looked up, her gaze sharp, tension in her eyes.

"Jonah, why are you making a fuss?" she asked.

"Not making a fuss," I replied.

"So this is all just because I didn't eat?" she said.

I let out a soft laugh, but it tasted like blood in my throat.

"Freya, look at you. You still think my whole life is just about whether you eat dinner or not," I said.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

I uncapped the pen, the black tip hovering over the paper.

"We need to wait for thirty days before finalizing the divorce. We'll go to City Hall tomorrow to file the papers," I said.

"Are you crazy?" she blurted out.

She pressed her hand down on the papers, her knuckles turning white.

"Jonah, didn't you always say you'd wait for me?" she said.

I really did say that in my previous life.

On our wedding day, she looked at an empty seat in the crowd and asked, "What if I can never love you?"

I held her hand, my palm sweaty.

I said, "I'll wait."

I waited my whole life for her.

I waited until I was dying of stomach cancer, until she was outside my hospital room talking to Paxton, until the last thing I thought before I closed my eyes was to turn up the AC for her.

I slowly drew the divorce papers back toward me.

"I'm done waiting," I said.

Freya's lashes trembled.

I handed her the pen.

"Sign it," I said.