Love's Final Betrayal: A Fading Star

On the day of my funeral, Chloe was getting married. That' s the simplest way to put it, the starkest truth that defined the end of my story and the beginning of hers. While a handful of people who genuinely loved me gathered under a gray, weeping sky, she was bathed in sunlight and applause, standing under an arch of white roses. But before that quiet end, there was a loud, painful beginning. It started the day Mark Johnson came back, pulling up to our small, rented house in a car that cost more than I made in three years. That night, the air in our little house felt tight, suffocating. Chloe stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, not looking at me, but at a future I clearly wasn't a part of. "We need to talk, Ethan." Her voice stripped of warmth, cool and measured, delivered the blow. "Mark is back. He' s offered me a position at his firm. A real career. A chance to have the life we' ve talked about." The "we" felt like a lie. "I' m saying I can' t do this anymore," she finally met my eyes, her gaze hard. "I can' t keep waiting for you to make it. This game of yours... it' s a hobby, Ethan. It' s not a future. I need security. I need more than what you can give me." Each word landed like a physical blow, a deep ache starting in my chest. What she didn' t know, what I hadn' t told anyone, was why I was always tired, why I was losing weight, why I coughed. A month ago, a doctor used words like "inoperable" and "palliative." I had chosen to finish my game, my legacy, rather than waste away in a hospital. Chloe saw my silence, my gaunt frame, and my tired eyes, and she misinterpreted it all. She saw weakness. "Look at you," she said, her voice laced with new cruelty. "You' re always tired. You' re letting yourself go. Is this what you want? To just waste away in front of this computer screen?" The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. I just turned back to my screen, my fingers finding the keyboard. "Are you even listening to me?" she snapped, frustration boiling over. "This is what you always do! You just retreat into your little fantasy world and ignore reality! I' m talking about our future, and you' re playing with your stupid game!" The pain in my chest turned sharp, a real physical thing. "I' m sorry, Chloe. I' m sorry I couldn' t be what you needed." I considered telling her, a desperate plea, but imagined the pity, her ambition chained to a dying man. I loved her too much to burden her. She took my apology as failure. "It' s too late for sorry, Ethan." She walked out, the front door closing with a soft, final click. The sound echoed in the sudden, crushing silence. I was alone. The pain in my chest exploded. My breath caught. I slid from my chair, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The last thing I saw was my glowing monitor, a testament to a love she had just thrown away. I woke up in a new kind of silence, hovering weightless, looking down at my own still body. I was dead. The silence was broken by Sarah, my best friend, slumped in the hospital chair, shaking with silent sobs. Her grief was immense, a storm. In the days that followed, I watched her, heartbroken, as she handled my final affairs. She grew thinner, hollow-eyed, fueled by pure will. She found my favorite hoodie, inhaling its scent. "What do I do, Ethan?" she whispered to the empty room. "I don' t know how to finish it without you." Then, her phone rang. Chloe. Sarah' s thumb hovered. "Hello?" Her voice was flat. Chloe' s voice was unnaturally cheerful. "Sarah! Hi! I know things were... tense... the other day, but I wanted to put that behind us. Mark and I are getting married!" Sarah' s muscles tightened. "We' re having the ceremony this Saturday. It' s at the Botanical Gardens. It would mean a lot to me if you came. As a sort of... peace offering." Saturday. This Saturday. Sarah' s eyes darted to the calendar. Next to it, one word: Funeral. The phone slipped from her hand. Chloe' s voice tinny from the floor, "Sarah? Are you there?" Sarah stared into space, a horrifying mask of disbelief and dawning rage. My funeral and Chloe' s wedding. The same day. She picked up the phone, ended the call. She looked at my game icon, then at the hoodie. "Oh, Ethan," she whispered, a sound half-sob, half-laugh. "She' s getting married. On the day we bury you, she' s getting married." I floated there, helpless. The tragedy was written. On Saturday, Sarah stood in front of her mirror, not in simple black, but in a stark, severe goth dress. She looked like an avenging angel of grief. She was going to the wedding first. No, Sarah, don' t. My silent scream from my ethereal prison. Just let it go. Let me go. But she couldn' t hear me. The Botanical Gardens buzzed with happy chatter. When Sarah walked in, a hush fell. People stared. Chloe saw her, annoyance clouding her bridal radiance. "Sarah, what in the world are you wearing? Is this some kind of sick joke? You look like you' re going to a funeral." Sarah' s voice was unnervingly calm. "That' s because I am." Chloe stared, uncomprehending. "After this, I' m going to a funeral. It' s at two o' clock. It' s for Ethan." Chloe' s face went slack with shock, then hardened with disbelief and anger. "That is not funny, Sarah. That is the most twisted, horrible thing you could possibly say. You' re trying to ruin my wedding day. Did he put you up to this? Is this his pathetic attempt at revenge?" Mark strode over. "Is everything alright, darling?" He sneered at Sarah' s dress. "What is this? Some kind of performance art?" "She' s trying to ruin our day," Chloe said, trembling. "She' s saying... she' s saying Ethan is dead." Mark laughed, a dismissive, ugly sound. "Don' t be ridiculous, Chloe. It' s a pathetic cry for attention. He' s probably hiding in the bushes somewhere, hoping you' ll come running." Chloe looked back at Sarah, her certainty reinforced by Mark. "You need to leave. Now. I' m sorry I ever invited you. I should have known you' d try to pull something like this." She turned to Mark. "I' m sorry, honey. I' ll have security escort her out." Sarah didn' t move, a small, bitter smile touching her lips. The wedding planner called Chloe' s name. It was time. Chloe gave Sarah one last, withering glare, then stopped. A flicker of doubt, of pure, cold fear, crossed her face. But the music was starting. Her future awaited. Chloe turned her back on Sarah, on the truth, and walked away to become Mrs. Mark Johnson. As Chloe walked down the aisle, a wave of memory hit me. Our cheap wine, designing her wedding dress on a napkin. Her laughter filling our small apartment. Now, she was a stranger in a dress I didn' t recognize, walking toward a man I despised. Sarah stood alone, a solitary figure of grief. "I' m the one who introduced them, you know," she murmured. "I' m so sorry, Ethan." The ceremony reached its peak. "Do you, Chloe Davis, take Mark Johnson..." Sarah turned to leave. "Wait." Chloe' s voice, quiet but clear. The officiant paused. Mark turned, confused. Guests murmured. Chloe wasn' t looking at Mark. She was looking at Sarah' s retreating figure. "Sarah, wait," she called again, voice stronger. Sarah stopped. Chloe took a shaky breath. She turned to Mark, pale. "Mark, I... I' m sorry. I have to... there' s something I have to do. I have to know." "Chloe, what are you talking about?" Mark hissed, grabbing her arm. "The whole world is watching." She pulled her arm away powerfully. "I don' t care. I have to know if she' s telling the truth." She lifted her gown and started running down the aisle, away from the altar, away from Mark. She was leaving her own wedding. She was going to my funeral. I watched her go, a storm of confusion. Mark' s face was a thundercloud of fury. The perfect day shattered. The cemetery was quiet, a stark contrast. A small group around freshly turned earth. My parents, a few friends, cousins. Then, a second figure appeared. A woman in a brilliant white wedding dress, now stained. Chloe. Her arrival sent a shockwave. My father' s sadness hardened. "What is she doing here?" he growled. My cousin, David, took a step. "You have no right to be here! Get out!" Chloe didn' t seem to hear them. Her eyes were fixed on the simple, polished granite headstone. Ethan Miller. Beloved Son and Friend. 1995 - 2023. When she read the words, a dry, choked gasp escaped her. She reached out a trembling hand, tracing my name. The cold, hard reality finally broke through her denial. She fell to her knees, a raw, animalistic cry escaping her throat. It was the sound of a world breaking apart. I watched, stunned. This was not the reaction of a woman who never truly loved me. My mother shrieked, pointing. "You! This is your fault! You did this to him! You broke his heart and you killed him!" "Helen, stop," my father said, but his eyes burned cold. "Leave. If you' re just here to make a scene, to show off your wedding dress at my son' s grave, then you can leave." Chloe didn' t respond. She was on her hands and knees, clawing at the dirt, trying to dig me up. "No," she sobbed. "No, it' s not real. Ethan! It' s not real!" Sarah rushed forward, grabbing Chloe' s arms. "Chloe, stop it! Stop! You' re making it worse!" "Let go of me!" Chloe screamed. "He can' t be gone! He can' t!" Another car screeched to a halt. Mark Johnson stormed up the hill, face purple with rage. "Chloe! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled, shoving Sarah. "Get your hands off my fiancée!" He tried to pull Chloe up, but she fought him off. "He' s gone, Mark!" she wailed. "Ethan' s gone!" Mark looked from her hysterical face to my grave, then to my angry family. "This is insane," he spat, pointing at Sarah. "This is your fault! You filled her head with this nonsense and dragged her here!" David stepped up to Mark, fists clenched. "She came on her own. And you need to back off. You' re not welcome here." "I' ll go where my fiancée goes," Mark sneered. My father, a man I' d never seen lose his temper, walked up to Mark. "She is not your fiancée here. Here, she is the woman who destroyed my son. Now get off this sacred ground before I have you removed." The air was thick with hate. My quiet funeral had become a battlefield. Chloe stood amidst the shouting, pale and streaked with tears and dirt, clutching a piece of her wedding dress. Mark tried to pull her away. "Chloe, let' s go. We can fix this. We' ll go on our honeymoon, forget any of this ever happened." She shook her head, pulling her arm from his grasp. "No," she whispered, a new, terrible finality in the small word. Sarah stepped between them, deeply exhausted. "You should go, Chloe. He wouldn' t have wanted this. He wouldn' t have wanted to see you like this." The words finally reached Chloe. She looked at my grave one last time, body shaking with a suppressed sob. Without another word, she turned and walked away, a ghost in a ruined wedding dress. As I watched her disappear, a sense of peace settled over me. It was over. The storm had passed. The truth, in its brutal way, was out. I felt the ties that bound me to her, to the pain and the love, finally loosen. I was free. In the weeks that followed, life, for the living, began to move on. My parents, heartbroken but practical, offered my game studio to Sarah. "We want you to have it, Sarah," my father said, voice thick with emotion. "It was Ethan' s dream. You were a part of that dream. We want you to carry it on." Sarah initially refused. "I can' t. It wouldn' t be right." "He would have wanted you to have it," my mother insisted. "Please." Sarah looked around the studio, at the concept art, my empty chair. She finally nodded, tears filling her eyes. "Okay. For Ethan. I' ll do it." A new fire lit in her. She threw herself into the work, determined to make my last game, "Chloe' s Star," a success. One night, looking for a file, she found a 'Personal' folder. Videos. Candid clips I' d taken. Me and her, years ago, laughing at an arcade. Us pulling an all-nighter in college, arguing playfully. Dozens of them. A hidden library of our friendship. "You saved all these?" she whispered to the empty room, a sad smile. "You nerd." Her phone rang, jarring her. The cemetery caretaker. "Ms. Clark? I' m sorry to bother you so late. But you need to come down. There' s been a problem at Mr. Miller' s grave. It looks like someone tried to... dig it up." Sarah' s car tore through the night, headlights cutting through darkness. Her knuckles white, face a mask of cold fury. At the cemetery, under harsh security lights, the scene was worse than imagined. My grave was torn up. A shovel discarded. And standing there, in the middle of the mess, were two figures: Chloe and Mark. Chloe looked lost, eyes vacant, clothes disheveled. Mark held a second, smaller shovel, his suit rumpled. "What in God' s name do you think you' re doing?" Sarah' s voice was a low growl. Mark had the audacity to look indignant. "We' re paying our respects! Chloe wanted his ashes. We were going to move them to a proper family mausoleum. A place of honor." "A place of honor?" Sarah laughed, harsh and bitter. "You mean a place where you could control his last remains? You think there' s some inheritance, don' t you? You think this struggling game developer was secretly a millionaire, and you want to get your hands on it." Her furious gaze turned to Chloe. "And you. I almost felt sorry for you. I almost thought you understood. But this? To do this with him? How could you?" Chloe shook her head, muttering, "I had to... I had to have him near me." That was the last straw for Sarah' s promise. "You want to know about honor, Chloe?" Sarah' s voice trembled with rage. "You want to know about the man you threw away? Let me tell you about him." She stepped closer. "Two years ago, your father' s company was about to collapse. A mysterious benefactor paid off all his debts. Anonymously. Do you know who that was, Chloe?" Chloe just stared, confused. "It was Ethan," Sarah said, words landing like hammer blows. "He sold everything his grandparents left him. Every last cent. That was the 'failed investment' he told you about. He chose to look like a failure in your eyes rather than let you see your family' s shame. That' s the money you accused him of wasting. That' s the man you said was holding you back." Color drained from Chloe' s face. Vacant eyes replaced by dawning, soul-crushing horror. "No," she whispered. "No, that' s not true." "It is true," Sarah said, relentless. "And you want to know about the man you chose instead?" She pulled out her phone. "I did some digging after the funeral, Mark. You' re not as careful as you think you are." She turned the screen to Chloe. Photos. Mark, kissing another woman. Screenshots of damning texts from before the wedding. Chloe looked from the phone to Mark. The final piece of her shattered world crumbled. "You..." she whispered, a strangled gasp. She launched herself at him, grief and rage finding a target. She beat at his chest, screaming. Mark, shocked, shoved her hard. "Get off me, you crazy bitch!" Chloe stumbled backward, her heel catching on the disturbed earth around my grave. She fell, her head hitting the corner of my granite headstone with a sickening, final crack. She lay still. A dark pool spread from her head. Mark stared, panicked. Sarah screamed. In the ensuing chaos of sirens and flashing lights, I felt my purpose fade. The truth was out. My legacy safe with Sarah. My name cleared. As they covered Chloe' s body, just as they had covered mine, I felt a lightness. The pain, love, betrayal-all dissolved into the cool night air. My game, "Chloe' s Star," released by Sarah, became a global sensation. My name, a symbol of a legacy that triumphed in death. And me? I was finally at peace. I turned from the living, from the wreckage, and faded into the quiet, starlit darkness.