I Sent His Perfect Lover Straight to Him

My husband Mark is dead.

Because his first love, Lily, killed herself.

She left a note that said: "If only I could be your wife in the next life."

Mark seemed okay at the time.

But that night, I heard the water running in the bathroom and found him lying in the tub, unconscious.

Next to him was a hastily scribbled note: "Okay, I'm coming to you."

We'd been married for five years. I never knew he still felt that way about her.

Then I opened my eyes—and found myself reborn back in high school.

I looked over at Mark, diligently working on his test under the humming classroom fan, and said:

"Let me tell you a secret. Lily is your future wife."

Mark and I grew up together. We were childhood sweethearts, married for five years.

That night, I wrapped my arms around him from behind and nuzzled into his neck.

"It's our anniversary. You promised we'd go to Miami Beach."

He kissed my cheek softly. "Okay."

But just before we boarded the plane, Mark got quiet.

"Can we not go?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" I was flipping through my travel guide and didn't quite catch it.

He looked down, brushed my cheek with his thumb, and shook his head. "Nothing."

The sea breeze in Miami was cool and refreshing, but Mark was pale. He blamed airsickness and went back to the hotel early.

Worried, I followed him.

He wasn't resting. He was pacing—making call after call. His usually calm face was tight with anxiety. No one was picking up.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

He jumped, quickly setting his phone down. "Nothing," he said, forcing a smile. "Just can't reach the HR manager."

Mark was a workaholic. He hadn't taken a real vacation in years.

I once asked why he worked so hard.

He booped my nose and said, "To take care of you, my princess."

I leaned against his chest. "Don't work too hard. I worry about you."

He held me close. "Okay."

I didn't notice the slight tremor in his voice.

Later, I dragged him to a famous local BBQ spot. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling meat. I dug right in, but Mark kept checking his phone, barely touching his food.

Finally, I took his phone and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

He let out a soft chuckle.

Then the TV above the bar caught my eye. The news was on.

The anchor was reporting in a grave tone: "Actress Lily Adams was found dead in her home this morning at 9 a.m. The cause of death has been confirmed as a drug overdose following severe depression. Police have ruled out foul play. Lily left a suicide note that read: 'If only I could be your wife in the next life.' As many know, Lily dedicated her life to her craft, never marrying or having children. Who would have thought she would take her own life over a lost love…"

Mark's chopsticks clattered to the floor.

I turned to him. His face had gone completely pale. His eyes were wide, stunned. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

I'd never seen him look like that—not the Mark I knew.

Finally, he seemed to snap out of it. "It's nothing," he mumbled. "Just a little dizzy."

After that, he seemed… normal. He even went on a boat trip with me and walked with me through a field of lavender.

I was so caught up in the moment, I missed the quiet despair in his eyes.

That night, I woke up to the sound of running water.

I got up and pushed the bathroom door open.

And I froze.

Mark was lying in the overflowing tub, blood swirling from his slashed wrist, turning the water crimson. A bloody razor lay loose in his other hand.

Sobbing, I pulled him out. He was barely breathing. Then he whispered—so faint, but it roared in my ears:

"Lily, I love you."

Those words echoed in my head as the paramedics arrived and rushed him out on a stretcher. I couldn't think. Couldn't feel.

I sat numbly outside the operating room all night.