But I never dared to say a word.
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.