It was my third rebirth, and Jake had died again at 28. Unwilling to accept it, I started over, as always. We met, fell in love, and then something shifted. He began using his "poor mental state" as an excuse to frequently see his therapist. Until one day I walked in on them kissing in her office. Jake sneered: "You might think I'm crazy if I told you, but I've actually died three times, and each time was right next to Serena. I originally wanted to see how she would save me, but now I think she's just bad luck. I'll keep my distance, and look, I'm perfectly fine." I quietly retreated. In this fourth life, whether he lived or died, it had nothing to do with me. I was going to live my own life. 1 I can't describe how I felt hearing those words. Jake was leaning into Dr. Evelyn Woodeson’s neck, sniffing her long hair. Dr. Woodeson was his therapist. Jake had recently been complaining about feeling mentally chaotic and needing to see a doctor. I never imagined this was the kind of “seeing a doctor” he meant. Their intimacy was a blinding sight. The rage of betrayal instantly consumed all my reason. I wanted to storm in and demand an explanation for his actions. Across three lifetimes, Jake’s heart had, from beginning to end, belonged to me. I had held this belief firmly, yet the reality of this fourth life struck me like a physical blow. I was incredulous, wondering if I had misunderstood something. Then, the Jake I believed loved me most deeply, most passionately, and most faithfully, spoke. He squinted, playfully twirling Dr. Woodeson’s long hair as she sat on his lap, then scoffed: “Dr. Woodeson, do you think there’s really something wrong with my head? But I don’t think those first three deaths were fake; the pain still sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it.” Dr. Woodeson clutched her chest, her concern affected. “Oh dear, what if you die again this time?” Jake curled his lips into a smile. “How could I? Each life I spent with Serena, and each time I died right beside her. I originally wanted to see how she’d save me, but now I realize she must just be cursed. I keep my distance, and look, I’m perfectly fine. This life, I have you, Dr. Evelyn.” His voice hitched slightly on the last words, making Dr. Woodeson blush and playfully complain: “Well then, you’ve found the right person. Dr. Woodeson will fix you this lifetime.” In that moment, the muffled laughter of the man and woman inside the room reached my ears, distorted as if through a membrane. Jake’s words replayed and amplified in my mind, making my heart clench, a suffocating feeling washing over me. I leaned against the wall, gasping for air. I couldn’t remember how I got home that day. I only recalled collapsing onto the sofa, my body drained of all strength. It felt as though my spine had been removed, leaving me limp. This was no exaggeration. What had sustained me through each rebirth was the obsession to save Jake at 28. In the first life, he died when we were most in love. We had just gotten our marriage license. He was driving us on a road trip, and I was admiring my ring, saying I wanted to design a matching pair of earrings. His "That sounds lovely" hadn't even fully left his lips when a runaway truck crashed into us with a sickening crunch. In that instant, time seemed to slow. In my widened eyes, dilated with horror, I clearly saw him lunge towards me, half his body shielding mine. Finally, I saw his bloodshot eyes, unwilling to close, filled with love and pain. I screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. My mind had only one thought: No, no, Jake can’t die, we have so much left to do… I want to start over, I want to save him! Then, suddenly, a voice in my head asked: Are you sure? Sure you want to give up your future, and go back to do something that might fail, repeating it again and again? I said yes. So I tried for one lifetime, two lifetimes… And this lifetime tells me he knew everything. He watched me, so pathetic and desperate, begging him to live. He even said I was bad luck, that I was the reason he died. 2 It was late when Jake returned home. I was still sitting on the sofa, replaying every step, trying to figure out where I went wrong, when his heart had changed. “Why are the lights off? What are you staring at?” His voice was as gentle as ever. He sat beside me, naturally reaching out to put an arm around my waist, acting so normal it was as if what I’d just witnessed had been a dream. I reflexively recoiled. The atmosphere grew stiff. A hint of coolness flickered in Jake’s eyes; he clearly sensed my abnormality. But, as if annoyed, he didn’t ask. “I’m going to bed. You should get some rest too.” I slept terribly that night. Even with Jake beside me, my mind replayed the scenes of his death over and over. In the first life, he died instantly in the car crash. Blood seeped from his body, soaking my shirt. In the second life, we were married, but we didn’t go on a honeymoon, so that car accident never happened. Then, something absurdly unexpected occurred. He came to pick me up from work, and a billboard above us came crashing down. It landed squarely on him. I watched, helpless, as the tall man was crushed without a trace. It was as if fate demanded his death. I refused to believe it, so we started the third life. This time, I quit my job. After we married, I stayed by his side almost constantly, terrified that something might happen if I looked away. We made it, against all odds, to his 28th birthday. As he blew out the candles, the light illuminated his sparkling eyes. In the glow, he confessed his love to me, his eyes misty: “Serena, it’s so good to have you.” My heart raced. I noticed his smile fading, his face blurring. A powerful sense of dread threatened to overwhelm me. Then Jake coughed up a mouthful of blood. Perhaps it was the passage of time, or perhaps my panic was too overwhelming to hold other memories. I couldn’t recall the name of his illness. It was some rare condition, and his life ended abruptly, almost absurdly quickly. My last memory was of a pristine white hospital room. In the deathly silence, only the faintly flashing monitor persistently beeped, as if severing his last thread of life. I couldn’t accept it. How could I? Jake and I met when we were young. I was a country bumpkin from a rural town, but because I was pretty and had an enviable talent for dance, a few girls in my class began to subtly target me. I endured it, and endured it, until the day they overturned my grandmother’s pancake stall. Amidst the chaos, I held back tears, helping my grandmother up. The girls, bright and polished, laughed condescendingly, their voices sharp. They called me "pancake girl," telling me to go home and flip pancakes. My grandmother was mute; she mumbled and gestured, wiping the grease from my clothes. They laughed even harder. And then Jake appeared. He held a camera, and a quick phone call brought the school administrators. He was a good student, and his family had some money, making him a formidable presence in our small town. It was an evening, and though the daytime sky had been gloomy, somehow, at that moment, the sun broke through the layers of haze and poured directly onto Jake. He extended his hand, and in his palm was a clean, neatly folded handkerchief. His first words were: “I’m sorry, I wanted to capture the evidence first, so I didn’t help you right away.” Even now, I remember how my heart pounded that day. Violent and strong, it had sustained me through countless worlds where I cycled alone through his deaths. 3 Even on the second morning, I was still somewhat disoriented. Jake was awake by then. He put on the clothes I’d ironed for him, glancing at me as I arranged breakfast on the table. “Aren’t you going to the dance company? Just going to stay home? There’s nothing for you to do here, is there…” His voice trailed off on the last few words, tinged with bewilderment. My hand paused as I wiped the table. I looked up at him, but he immediately averted his gaze. “You eat breakfast here. I won’t. Don’t see me off, and don’t pick me up tonight. I’m going to see Dr. Woodeson.” He rubbed his temple at the appropriate moment, his tone casual. If it were before, I would have worried about his state. But now, I only felt a chill in my heart. He was almost 28, and we were about to get our marriage license. In previous lives, at this point, I had completely lost the desire to work, consumed by fear and anxiety. So I simply resigned from the dance company and truly became a housewife. At the time, he thought I was too tired and said with a smile: “Then don’t go. From now on, you’ll only dance for me. With me around, what do you have to worry about?” I accompanied him to and from work, and he proudly introduced me to his colleagues, showing off our matching rings. But now, he looked at me warily and coldly, telling me: “Don’t keep an eye on me all day. Find something to do for yourself. Don’t stare at me and let your imagination run wild; now you’re saying all sorts of things.” He was about to say more, but then he froze. My tone was very flat and cold: “No, we won’t.” Just three words, but they were a struggle to say. Jake was momentarily taken aback, a hint of confusion in his eyes. “What did you say?” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, sounding as if he was suppressing some joy. I suddenly remembered what he’d said to Dr. Woodeson: “She’s always clinging to me, like bad luck. How could I not have something happen to me?” My tears welled up, but I held them back. Instead, a surge of indignation rushed to my head, and my cold blood felt like it was set ablaze. I smiled silently: “What? You’re happy I said no to marriage? Jake, you haven’t actually fallen for someone else, have you? Impatient to get rid of me?” Realizing I might be joking and teasing him, his face immediately changed, darkening frighteningly: “Serena, I think you’re the one with mental issues. Is this fun? No wonder I haven’t been feeling well lately; it turns out you’re affecting me.” He looked down at me, indignantly threw off his jacket, and went to sleep in the guest bedroom. The living room returned to silence, but the oppressive feeling lingered. I tilted my head back, looking at the ceiling, and the tears I’d held back for so long didn’t retreat, but streamed out, vying for release. After that day, Jake and my relationship became even colder. He began openly seeing Dr. Woodeson. When I confronted him, heartbroken, he just looked at me blandly, his expression mocking: “Then just give up on me. Don’t get married. Your world isn’t just me.” He was so calm, it made me feel like the crazy one. I was speechless.
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