Chapter 1 · Too Late, Alonzo

When Alonzo Gilmore handed me the divorce papers for the third time, he didn't even look at me.

"Just sign it," he said coldly. "Don't make this uglier than it has to be."

I picked up the pen and suddenly, lines of blood-red messages flooded my vision. They were sent by Alonzo, ten years in the future.

The thirty-five-year-old him was desperately spamming: [Don't sign it. Please don't sign it. Amelia, don't leave me. Once you sign, we really have no future left.]

[I didn't know you were already sick... I didn't know that would be the last time I ever saw you.]

I looked at the Alonzo in front of me, twenty-five years old, impatient, distant. Then I looked at the Alonzo in the void, thirty-five, shattered by regret.

My tears fell onto the paper.

So... he did learn to regret it. But it was already too late.

I smiled, signed my name, and said softly, "Alonzo, don't look back."

*****

When Alonzo Gilmore handed me the divorce papers for the third time, he didn't even look at me.

"Just sign it," he said coldly. "Don't make this uglier than it has to be."

I looked at those few thin sheets of paper in front of me, then at him.

He was wearing the dark gray shirt I'd bought him, sleeves rolled up, showing off his lean forearms. Those hands had held me so many times, telling me he'd give me a home.

Now, those same hands were impatiently drumming on the table, pushing me to end our seven years together.

"Alonzo," I called out, my voice was a little hoarse.

"Is this really the only way?" I asked.

Alonzo frowned and finally looked up at me.

"Amelia, let's end things peacefully. Phoebe's back, and she's fragile. She can't handle any drama. I need to make things official for her."

Phoebe Stevens was his childhood best friend, the girl he could never let go of.

Even after five years overseas, all it took was a word from her and Alonzo would dump me in a heartbeat, the replacement who stuck around for seven years.

I picked up the pen.

Just as the tip touched the paper, out of the blue, a flash of red light burst before my eyes.

It was like those barrage comments in old cinemas, lines of blood-red words appeared out of thin air above Alonzo's head.

Every single message was from [Alonzo, aged 35].

[Don't sign it. Please don't sign it. Amelia, don't leave me.]

[Once you sign, we really have no future left.]

[I didn't know you were already sick... I didn't know that would be the last time I ever saw you.]

[Alonzo, you bastard! Just look at her, will you? Look at her hands. They're shaking!]

I froze.

The pen slipped in my hand, leaving a stark, glaring line of ink across the paper.

I looked at Alonzo, just twenty-five, impatient as ever, and now even more annoyed just because my hands were shaking.

Then I glanced at the 35-year-old Alonzo floating above us, every word he typed a cry of pain, completely consumed by regret.

A sense of surreal absurdity hit me hard.

Tears hit the paper, heavy and sudden.

Turns out he would regret after all.

So, ten years from now, this choice will tear you apart inside.

"What are you crying for?" Alonzo said.

Seeing my tears, his frown just got deeper, like I was making things even more inconvenient for him.

He said, "Amelia, drop the act. The house is yours, and I'll throw in five million. That should set you up for life. Don't go acting like I'm screwing you over."

He fished out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out a ring of smoke, irritation practically radiating off him.

Above us, the pop-up messages were going wild.

[Don't smoke! She can't handle the smell! Her lungs feel awful right now!]

[You jerk! Put out that cigarette! Put it out, now!]

[Amelia, don't cry, please... I messed up. I really messed up...]

I stared at those barrage comments, and suddenly, the whole thing struck me as absurdly funny.

The future you aches for me, but the present you just looks at me with nothing but disdain.

I wiped my tears, met Alonzo's indifferent gaze head-on, and signed my name with steady hands.

"Alright," I said. setting down the pen and slid the papers back to him.

"Alonzo, you got what you wanted," I said.

Alonzo looked genuinely surprised that I'd agreed so easily.

He paused for a second, then picked up the papers and checked them over. Once he was sure everything was in order, his expression finally relaxed a little.

"See you at the courthouse at nine tomorrow morning," he said.

With that, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

He stopped at the door and looked back at me.

"Amelia, stay out of my life," he said coldly. "Phoebe is kind and innocent. I won't let her get dragged into any rumors or mess because of you."

The comments hovering above his head exploded once more.

[Phoebe isn't innocent at all! She's acting! She even faked illness to trick you!]

[Alonzo, are you blind? The woman who truly loves you is standing right in front of you!]

[Amelia, stop him! Tell him you're sick! Say it's cancer!]

I stared at that line, "Tell him it's cancer", and before I knew it, my hand went to my bag.

In the deepest pocket lay a medical report, which read: advanced gastric cancer and terminal stage.

The doctor had told me I had no more than three months. I had planned to tell him.

Even if we were parting, I still wanted someone beside me in my final days, even if that companionship came only from pity.

But watching him push me away so desperately for another woman shattered what little strength I had left.

Chapter 1

When Alonzo Gilmore handed me the divorce papers for the third time, he didn't even look at me.

"Just sign it," he said coldly. "Don't make this uglier than it has to be."

I picked up the pen and suddenly, lines of blood-red messages flooded my vision. They were sent by Alonzo, ten years in the future.

The thirty-five-year-old him was desperately spamming: [Don't sign it. Please don't sign it. Amelia, don't leave me. Once you sign, we really have no future left.]

[I didn't know you were already sick... I didn't know that would be the last time I ever saw you.]

I looked at the Alonzo in front of me, twenty-five years old, impatient, distant. Then I looked at the Alonzo in the void, thirty-five, shattered by regret.

My tears fell onto the paper.

So... he did learn to regret it. But it was already too late.

I smiled, signed my name, and said softly, "Alonzo, don't look back."

*****

When Alonzo Gilmore handed me the divorce papers for the third time, he didn't even look at me.

"Just sign it," he said coldly. "Don't make this uglier than it has to be."

I looked at those few thin sheets of paper in front of me, then at him.

He was wearing the dark gray shirt I'd bought him, sleeves rolled up, showing off his lean forearms. Those hands had held me so many times, telling me he'd give me a home.

Now, those same hands were impatiently drumming on the table, pushing me to end our seven years together.

"Alonzo," I called out, my voice was a little hoarse.

"Is this really the only way?" I asked.

Alonzo frowned and finally looked up at me.

"Amelia, let's end things peacefully. Phoebe's back, and she's fragile. She can't handle any drama. I need to make things official for her."

Phoebe Stevens was his childhood best friend, the girl he could never let go of.

Even after five years overseas, all it took was a word from her and Alonzo would dump me in a heartbeat, the replacement who stuck around for seven years.

I picked up the pen.

Just as the tip touched the paper, out of the blue, a flash of red light burst before my eyes.

It was like those barrage comments in old cinemas, lines of blood-red words appeared out of thin air above Alonzo's head.

Every single message was from [Alonzo, aged 35].

[Don't sign it. Please don't sign it. Amelia, don't leave me.]

[Once you sign, we really have no future left.]

[I didn't know you were already sick... I didn't know that would be the last time I ever saw you.]

[Alonzo, you bastard! Just look at her, will you? Look at her hands. They're shaking!]

I froze.

The pen slipped in my hand, leaving a stark, glaring line of ink across the paper.

I looked at Alonzo, just twenty-five, impatient as ever, and now even more annoyed just because my hands were shaking.

Then I glanced at the 35-year-old Alonzo floating above us, every word he typed a cry of pain, completely consumed by regret.

A sense of surreal absurdity hit me hard.

Tears hit the paper, heavy and sudden.

Turns out he would regret after all.

So, ten years from now, this choice will tear you apart inside.

"What are you crying for?" Alonzo said.

Seeing my tears, his frown just got deeper, like I was making things even more inconvenient for him.

He said, "Amelia, drop the act. The house is yours, and I'll throw in five million. That should set you up for life. Don't go acting like I'm screwing you over."

He fished out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out a ring of smoke, irritation practically radiating off him.

Above us, the pop-up messages were going wild.

[Don't smoke! She can't handle the smell! Her lungs feel awful right now!]

[You jerk! Put out that cigarette! Put it out, now!]

[Amelia, don't cry, please... I messed up. I really messed up...]

I stared at those barrage comments, and suddenly, the whole thing struck me as absurdly funny.

The future you aches for me, but the present you just looks at me with nothing but disdain.

I wiped my tears, met Alonzo's indifferent gaze head-on, and signed my name with steady hands.

"Alright," I said. setting down the pen and slid the papers back to him.

"Alonzo, you got what you wanted," I said.

Alonzo looked genuinely surprised that I'd agreed so easily.

He paused for a second, then picked up the papers and checked them over. Once he was sure everything was in order, his expression finally relaxed a little.

"See you at the courthouse at nine tomorrow morning," he said.

With that, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

He stopped at the door and looked back at me.

"Amelia, stay out of my life," he said coldly. "Phoebe is kind and innocent. I won't let her get dragged into any rumors or mess because of you."

The comments hovering above his head exploded once more.

[Phoebe isn't innocent at all! She's acting! She even faked illness to trick you!]

[Alonzo, are you blind? The woman who truly loves you is standing right in front of you!]

[Amelia, stop him! Tell him you're sick! Say it's cancer!]

I stared at that line, "Tell him it's cancer", and before I knew it, my hand went to my bag.

In the deepest pocket lay a medical report, which read: advanced gastric cancer and terminal stage.

The doctor had told me I had no more than three months. I had planned to tell him.

Even if we were parting, I still wanted someone beside me in my final days, even if that companionship came only from pity.

But watching him push me away so desperately for another woman shattered what little strength I had left.