Because I knew the one she loved was Peter.
The way she looked at him was the same way I looked at her.
In my previous life, when word came back that the boat had sunk, Kirsten was holding a glass of water. Her hand started to tremble, and the water spilled all down her front. She didn't even notice.
Then the color drained from her face, inch by inch, until even her lips were bloodless.
She didn't cry. Not a single tear.
But that look on her face was more terrifying than any amount of crying.
In the days that followed, it was as if her soul had left her body.
She wouldn't speak. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep.
She just sat on the hospital bed, staring out the window.
Every day after work, I went to the hospital to sit with her.
I brought her the red bean cakes she'd loved as a kid. I told her funny stories from the office.
Once in a while she'd glance at me, but her gaze would drift away almost immediately.
This went on for the better part of a year.
One day, out of nowhere, she asked me whether Peter had suffered when he died.
I told her no. The boat went down fast. He wouldn't have felt a thing.
She nodded. And finally, the tears came.
After that, she slowly started to come back.
She began eating again. Talking again. Smiling at me again.
I thought she'd moved on. I thought time could wash anything away.
So a year later, I told her how I felt.
I'd been carrying those words for years. I'd planned to carry them to my grave.
But I wanted to give myself one chance.
She was quiet for a long time. And then, to my disbelief, she nodded.
I was over the moon. In that single moment, it felt like the whole world was mine.
On our wedding day, I told her I'd be good to her. Good to her for the rest of my life.
She smiled and said she believed me.
For fifty years, I kept that promise. I worked hard so she could live well.
When she got sick, I sat at her bedside through the night, every night. If she craved something, I'd cross half the city to find it.
We had our fights. We had our silences. But we never truly separated.
I thought that was happiness. I thought that was what love looked like when it was whole.
Until the very end, when our son asked her if she had any regrets.
She answered through tears.
The biggest regret of my life is not getting on that boat.
Fifty years.
Fifty years sharing the same bed. Fifty years of grocery runs and utility bills and ordinary life.