He Rejected Me on Our Anniversary, But He Doesn't Know I'm Dying

On our third anniversary, I put on a wedding dress and asked Liam to marry me.

His face went cold. He told me to stop screwing around.

I wiped away a tear and managed a smile.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Liam.”

“But… I’m dying. You might want to start looking for my replacement.”

He told me I was sick in the head, then slammed the door on his way out.

But I wasn’t kidding.

I really am dying.

1

I’d been with Liam Carter for three years, and for three years, he spoiled me rotten.

If it weren’t for the bubble of his affection, I don’t think I could have lasted this long.

I remember the first time he took me to a party with his friends. He’d only been gone, off to the restroom, for a few minutes before the whispers started.

They said Liam moved on too fast. That his wife, Annabelle, had barely been gone before he found a new plaything. They said I was from the wrong side of the tracks, that I couldn’t hold a candle to the woman he’d lost.

Everyone in that room was dripping with old money and Ivy League degrees. I didn’t want to make trouble for Liam. So I just stared at my lap and said nothing. I let them talk.

When Liam came back, he knew instantly that something was wrong. He found my hand under the table and gave it a tight squeeze.

“What is it? Who upset you?”

The wall I’d built around my feelings, the one I thought was so strong, crumbled at the gentle timber of his voice. I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

I snatched my hand away, fighting to keep the tears from spilling over.

“It’s nothing. The AC is just blasting in here. I’m freezing.”

He watched me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he stood, took his jacket from the back of his chair, and draped it over my shoulders. He took my hand again, this time lacing his fingers through mine, a silent declaration on top of the polished mahogany table.

Across from us, a younger guy with a smirk couldn't help himself. He lifted his bourbon, swirled it, and took a theatrical sniff.

“Wow,” he said loudly. “Smells like some serious drama in here.”

A few others snickered. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, the shame so hot I just wanted to disappear.

“Liam, I think I need to use the restroom…”

But he held my hand tighter, refusing to let go.

His eyes swept across the table, finally landing on the self-appointed comedian.

“Caleb,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Apologize to Stella.”

2

The mood in the room curdled.

Caleb and Liam went way back. No one could believe he’d call out one of his oldest friends for a girl he’d just started seeing.

After a stunned silence, Caleb scoffed. “You want me to apologize to her? Liam, what the hell is she?”

Liam’s gaze never left Caleb, but his thumb began to gently stroke the back of my hand. “Stella is my girlfriend. If you still want to call me a friend, you’ll apologize.”

I tugged on his arm, whispering, “It’s okay, really.” The last thing I wanted was for him to blow up a friendship over me. It would only make things worse.

But Liam just patted my hand, a silent command to stay quiet.

Caleb’s face flushed with anger. He shot to his feet, pointing a finger at Liam.

“Then what about Annabelle? What was she? She’s been gone six months, and you’re already showing off some cheap replacement!” he spat. “Have you forgotten how she died?”

Liam’s grip on my hand became a vise. The pressure was so intense I thought my bones would snap. I winced but didn't dare make a sound.

His face, however, remained a mask of calm. “Stella is Stella. Annabelle is Annabelle. Don’t compare them,” he said, his voice flat. “She’s gone. I have to move on.”

His bluntness silenced the entire room.

My own heart felt like it had been squeezed in a fist. Tears pricked my eyes again.

Liam, however, simply wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to my feet.

“Don’t invite me to things like this anymore,” he said to the silent table.

“It upsets Stella.”

From that day on, I had a reputation in his circle.

They all said Liam Carter had found a girl who was a dead ringer for Annabelle.

And that he was spoiling her beyond all reason.

3

I knew Liam had been married. I knew a car accident had cut it short. He’d told me all of it himself the night he asked me to be his girlfriend.

He was single, and I was single. I hadn’t broken anything up. So I refused to be branded a homewrecker.

After we left the party that night, I quietly tried to end things.

“Liam, maybe we should just forget it. I don’t want people looking at me like that.”

He stopped walking and turned to face me, tipping my chin up so he could look into my eyes. The streetlight cast long shadows across his face.

“Are you angry?”

It wasn’t anger, not really. But being called a replacement felt like a splinter under my skin. Every time I thought about it, the pain was sharp and fresh.

Since we’d been together, I’d never once brought up his late wife. I figured some chapters were best left closed. But tonight, the way he’d crushed my hand under the table… it planted a seed of doubt.

I had never seen a photo of Annabelle. There were no pictures of her in his apartment, not even on his phone. It was a complete blank slate. If Caleb hadn't said anything, I never would have known.

That I looked just like her.

“You and Annabelle—”

He cut me off, his tone suddenly sharp. “You are you. She is she.”

The sudden chill in his voice startled me. I just stared at him, speechless.

A moment later, the ice in his eyes thawed, and he let out a soft sigh. “Are you saying you’re breaking up with me? Found someone without a limp?”

4

The accident had left Liam with a permanent injury in his left leg. If you watched closely when he walked, you could see a slight, almost imperceptible limp.

But he had been completely transparent about it from the beginning. How could I possibly hold it against him?

He was twisting my words, and I fell right into his trap.

“What are you talking about? I would never think that!” I said, rushing to defend myself.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled me into his arms, his mouth finding mine in the cool night air.

“Good girl,” he murmured against my lips. “Don’t overthink things.”

…

Later, in the bedroom, he pinned me to the sheets, overwhelming my senses. When we made love, he had this habit of staring deep into my eyes, as if he were falling into them. It was unnerving, heartbreakingly intense.

I couldn’t handle his heated gaze. I’d hide my face in the crook of his arm and gently bite his tense bicep.

He would just laugh and ask me why I was so shy.

In those moments, the sweetness was enough to wash away all the bitterness, all the doubt. Liam’s fierce, protective love became my armor.

The next time someone said something, I echoed his words back at them: “You have to move on. You can’t expect him to be alone forever, can you?”

The response was always laced with scorn.

“Oh, that’s rich! You really think you’re something special, don’t you? You think Liam Carter is going to marry you? Keep dreaming,” one of them sneered. It was Brooke, Caleb’s girlfriend. “Everyone knows what Annabelle meant to him. She was with him through everything, from nothing to the top. And that car accident? If she hadn’t shielded him, Liam would be the one who’s dead!”

“Exactly,” another girl chimed in. “She was the one that got away. And you can’t replace a ghost. The only reason he even looks at you is because you have her face.”

It was Brooke who led the charge, cornering me with her little posse. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

As they left, she deliberately stepped on my foot.

“You can put a designer dress on a piece of trash,” she said, looking me up and down. “But it’s still trash.”

5

I crouched down, frantically trying to wipe the smudge from my shoe. As I scrubbed, tears started to fall.

Liam had picked these shoes for me. They were covered in tiny, glittering crystals, like something out of a fairytale. Before we left the apartment, he had knelt down and put them on my feet himself.

He said they were beautiful.

Liam never lied to me. The way he cared for me was something I’d never experienced before.

But… every time they compared me to Annabelle, I was defenseless. She was gone. Anything I said would be seen as disrespecting the dead.

I wiped my tears and hid in a quiet corner to make a call. They had their friends, but so did I.

After thirty minutes on the phone with Maya, I felt a little better. I looked up and saw Liam across the room, effortlessly charming, laughing with a group of men in suits. The glittering lights of the chandelier separated us, casting us in two different worlds.

As if he could feel my gaze, he turned his head and shot me a smile.

It was warm and intimate, a secret just for me.

I knew I would never truly fit into his world.

But I also knew I couldn’t bear to be anyone’s ghost.

…

On the anniversary of Annabelle’s death, Liam prepared to visit her grave. I asked if I could go with him.

He refused without a second thought.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he said. “Just stay home and wait for me. Or go shopping, whatever you want.”

I held onto his hand, trying to be playful. “I just want to see her, you know? Bring her some flowers—”

Liam pulled his hand away, his tone hardening. “Stella, I know what you’re doing. Do you really care that much about what other people say? Can’t you just let it go with a dead woman?”

Tears welled in my eyes and fell before I could stop them.

Yes, I cared. I cared if he would ever marry me. I cared if he was only with me because I was a stand-in.

I looked him in the eye, my voice trembling but stubborn. “Will you marry me then?”

Liam went silent. As he turned to leave, he threw the words over his shoulder.

“Stella, I don’t want to get married. If you can’t accept that, you can leave.”

6

It was the first real fight we ever had.

I sat alone in our sprawling living room and listened to the rain fall all night long.

He came back the next morning.

The walk from the front door to the living room was only a dozen steps, but he took them with agonizing slowness. His limp was more pronounced than I had ever seen it.

“Stella,” he said, his voice strained. “My leg is killing me. Can you… can you come hold me?”

It was the old injury from the crash. A deep, chronic pain that never truly healed. It flared up on damp, rainy days like this, torturing him, keeping him awake all night. Sometimes it was so bad he had to rely on painkillers just to get through it.

I couldn’t stand to see him suffer. I had even taken a course in therapeutic massage just for him. Whenever the weather turned, I would spend hours rubbing his leg, trying to ease the ache.

He sank onto the sofa beside me. He took my hand, his own feeling cold and tired. “Stella, please don’t be angry anymore,” he sighed. “Can we just… not fight again? Ever?”

He was surrendering. He knew I would soften, that I would forgive him. He knew I was powerless against his pain.

You can’t win a fight against a ghost. And we had a lifetime ahead of us. What was the rush?

After that day, I never said the name “Annabelle” again.

And we never fought again.

For three years, he gave me everything I could ever want. Our relationship felt unshakable.

Today was our third anniversary.

I put on a wedding dress, held a bouquet of white roses, and waited for him to come home.

I’d been planning this surprise for a month. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.

The door opened.

Liam’s voice, laced with a bit of weariness from a long day, drifted in from the foyer.

“Stella, guess what I got for you—”

His words died in his throat the moment he saw me.

I opened my arms wide, a brilliant smile on my face. “Liam! Surprise!”

But I watched the light in his eyes extinguish, ember by ember, until only cold ash remained.

“Stella, don’t do this. Take it off.”

“I told you,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t want to get married.”

7

We stood on opposite ends of the living room, staring at each other like strangers.

The air was thick, heavy, almost impossible to breathe.

Finally, he loosened his tie and tossed the bouquet and gift box he was holding onto the coffee table. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter sharp in the dimming light.

I was frozen in place, forcing my lips into a smile, desperate to salvage the evening.

“Liam, this dress… I went to every bridal shop in the city to find it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

His cheek hollowed as he took a long drag from the cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the smoke billowing out and obscuring his face.

The fragile hope I’d been clinging to dissolved with the smoke.

All he said was, “Change.”

In that instant, the light, airy tulle of the dress felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pulling me down, making it hard to stand.

“Liam, we’ve been together for three years… Don’t you like the surprise?”

He leaned back against the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stella, the plan was a quiet dinner, maybe some candles. Tomorrow, we were supposed to be on a plane to Bali. Everything was perfect. Why… why did you have to do this?”

He was right. A three-year anniversary trip to Bali. That was the plan.

But plans change.

I gathered the skirt in my hands and walked toward him. It was a form of self-torture, but I couldn’t stop myself. I smiled.

“Liam, the reason you won’t marry me… it’s because of her, isn’t it? You can’t let her go. You’re still living in the past with Annabelle—”

His head snapped up. “Stella,” he said, his voice a low warning. “I told you not to talk about her.”

8

Don’t talk about her.

As if that would make him stop thinking about her.

Then why did you make me grow my hair out?

Why are the shoes you buy for me always a size too big?

Why do you go to the house you shared with her on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death, and stay there all night, alone?

Liam.

Who are you trying to fool? Me, or yourself?

My eyes burned, and his face blurred through a film of tears. I wiped them away furiously, pulling my lips into a tight, humorless smile.

“You know, Liam, if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t even love her that much.”

“If you truly loved someone,” I said, my voice shaking, “you wouldn’t tolerate a replacement.”

That hit a nerve.

He shot up from the sofa and his hands were around my neck before I could even register he had moved.

“You’ve crossed a line, Stella,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “Your job is to stay by my side, to look like her, to make me happy. It’s so simple. Why can’t you do that? Why do you have to be so greedy and ask for marriage?”

“I told you! You are you, and she is she! You can’t compare yourselves! Why can’t you get that through your head?”

He was losing control, his eyes bloodshot, his grip tightening. For a terrifying second, I thought he was actually going to kill me.

But then his eyes met mine—the eyes that looked so much like Annabelle’s—and his resolve faltered.

He let go. I stumbled backward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of white tulle.

I looked up at him and laughed, a ragged, broken sound.

“Does it hurt? Having your little fantasy exposed after all this time? Tell me,” I gasped, “if I died, could you find another girl who looks this much like her?”

“Enough,” he growled. “Stop this nonsense. Stay here and think about what you’ve done. This will not happen again.”

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

He even forgot to take his anniversary gift with him.

I destroyed everything in the living room. Then I sank to the floor amidst the wreckage, laughing and crying until I had nothing left.

He said I was being dramatic.

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