He Took My Love 99 Times. The 100th Time, He Lost Me Forever. Chapter 05

He Took My Love 99 Times. The 100th Time, He Lost Me Forever. Chapter 05

That night, I opened the journal I had taken from the safe.

The first page read:

[First transaction. Dante cried. I thought: if it keeps him from hurting, one percent is nothing.]

The twentieth:

[My birthday. He promised dinner, then ran off to watch Serena’s rehearsal.]

[When he came back he brought me a slice of cake and said that made up for it.]

[That night he took a little more of my love, because Serena’s teacher had scolded her and she

was afraid to go on stage.]

The forty-seventh:

[Papa is dying. I begged Dante to come to the hospital with me. He said Serena’s rehab was at a critical point.]

[I signed the critical-condition notice alone.]

[The day my father died, the system notified me that Dante had just bought a little of my love, to give Serena the courage to face goodbyes.]

The seventy-third:

[I woke from the miscarriage surgery and Dante wasn’t there. The nurse said he left when

Serena called.]

[Before dawn, a transaction alert popped up.]

[He had bought a little more of my love, because Serena couldn’t sleep before her first overseas

performance.]

The ninety-eighth:

[I can’t remember what his first kiss was like. The system says my remaining Affection is

nearly down to the last percent.]

[I texted Dante and begged him not to take any more. He didn’t answer. Serena’s semifinal had

started

The last page held a single line:

[If a day comes when I no longer love him, I beg the me of that day: do not turn back for the

me of today.]

Tucked in the journal’s lining was an old phone, long out of use.

When I turned it on, the recording app held a dozen unsent voice messages.

“Dante, I forgot the door code again today. The doctor said I can’t do any more transactions.”

“Can you come home and take me to my checkup?”

“Dante, I woke up and couldn’t remember our wedding. I’m a little scared.”

“This is the ninety-eighth. I’m begging you, don’t press it again.”

“It’s not that I can’t spare that little bit of love.”

“I’m afraid that one day I’ll look at you and feel nothing at all.”

The date on the last recording was the day before the finals.

In the background, I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Dante, if you’re still going to take it, then say it to my face.”

“At least let me know whether I’m worth one of Serena’s competitions.”

That one had been sent.

In the chat log, his reply came two minutes later:

[Don’t corner me with questions like that.]

[Serena has trained for ten years. Can you be sensible for once?]

So the old me had not stayed silent.

She had reached out, again and again.

It was just that the man who had promised to always catch her had chosen, every time, to let

Ink had blurred where tears fell.

My own eyes were dry.

I grieved for the girl I used to be.

I could not grieve for the man she had loved.

The doorbell rang.

Dante stood outside holding an old cardboard box.

Inside were twelve years of photographs, movie ticket stubs, letters, and one faded paper star.

“You folded this for me when you were eighteen.”

He placed the star in my palm, his voice, for once, free of command.

“You said that when you’d made a hundred, you’d marry me.’

“And then?”

“And then you really did.”

He brought out the wedding video.

On screen, I wore a white dress, and my eyes were bright when I looked at him.

Halfway through the vows, his phone buzzed.

The Dante on screen glanced down at a message and walked out of the frame.

The priest filled the silence with an awkward joke.

Five minutes later, he came back and finished the ceremony.

I asked, “Who was it?”

Dante paused the video.

“Serena. She fell during rehab that day.”

Next clip: our anniversary.

I had cooked a full dinner.

He spent forty minutes on the balcony on the phone with Serena.

The clip after that: I lay on the sofa with a fever.

He walked past me, picked up the car keys, and said Serena had finished rehearsal and had no

ride home.

The further he scrolled, the paler he became.

So even the memories he had chosen to prove we were happy were crowded with another

person.

“Stop watching.”

He snapped the laptop shut.

“I was careless before. From now on, I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“We’ll hold the wedding again. Celebrate every anniversary.”

“As for your father… I’ll go with you to visit his grave.”

“And the child I lost?”

He had nothing left to say.

I placed the paper star back in the box.

“Mr. Castellano, you can’t make it up to me.”

His eyes were red as he gripped the edge of the box.

“You loved me so much back then!”

“Yes.”

I handed him the last page of the journal.

“That’s why she begged me never to love you again.”