I Matched My Late Wife on Tinder – Story of the Day

Three years ago, a horrific car accident killed my wife. My world shattered and I couldn't move on. One day, my friend suggested an online dating app. As he scrolled through some profiles, a familiar face stopped me cold. It couldn't be… but there she was, my DEAD wife, alive and active on Tinder.

The amber glow of the bar cast long shadows across the worn wooden table. Beer mugs clinked in the background, a soundtrack to a Friday night I barely registered. Across from me, my buddy Ken swirled his wine, the ruby liquid catching the light with each tilt of the glass.

"Seriously, dude? Not again! You still not over this, man?" Ken's voice held a weary edge. "She's gone, Jordan. Get over it. There's no point in ruining your life over someone who—" he paused. Maybe Ken understood my pain. Maybe not. But only I knew how it hurt me day and night.

My gaze drifted down to the gold wedding band on my finger. God, I was still wearing it! The familiar ache pulsed in my chest, a constant companion for the past three years.

My wife Zenya's laughter, a melody burning into my memory, echoed in the cavernous space of my skull. Her smile, the one that brought sunshine into my life on even the gloomiest of days, flashed behind my closed eyelids.

"I hear it, you know," I rasped, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Her laugh… her voice. Like she's... there. Alive."

Ken tossed back the rest of his wine, grimacing. "Hear what, Jordan? She's dead. Your wife Zenya is DEAD! Do you hear me? Stop doing this to yourself, man. You're destroying yourself with the ghosts of her memories."

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He slammed his glass onto the table, the sharp crackle jolting me momentarily. "Get rid of the damn record player in your head, man. Move on for Christ's sake! Just… get over her. You have a whole life ahead of you. I can't see you like this, man."

His words stung, but a stubborn part of me clung to the memory of Zenya. Three years wasn't enough. It would never be enough. How could I forget her? She was mixed in my blood and soul.

Frustration simmered in Ken's eyes. He snatched my phone from the table, his fingers moving with practiced ease. "Look," he grumbled, "we're doing this. Today. No buts. No nothing. Tinder. Downloading it now."

"Profile created!" Ken announced, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "Time to see what kind of trouble we can get into. Hot singles in your area, they say? Challenge accepted!"

He swiped through profiles, each woman a blur of carefully angled selfies and filtered sunsets. "What about this one?" he asked, shoving the phone under my nose. A blonde with pouty lips stared back.

"Nope," I mumbled, shaking my head, protesting, "Man, can you please stop this? I'm not interested." But Ken wasn't having any of it.

A brunette with impossibly long legs followed, then a redhead with eyes the color of emeralds. Between swipes, Ken peppered the air with commentary, each word a hammer blow to my already bruised spirit.

"Come on, man, pick one! Date night. Hot coffee. Forget everything for a night! Wake up in her arms with a fresh mind!"

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Just as I opened my mouth to voice a more forceful refusal, another picture flashed on the screen. My breath hitched in my throat, the world around me dissolving into a hazy blur. It can't be.

Staring back at me was a woman named Alice, but it wasn't Alice I saw. It was Zenya, my dead wife. The same cascading dark hair, the same mischievous glint in her eyes, the same smile that had once set my world on fire. And that same face.

Panic clawed at my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Across from me, Ken noticed the shift in my posture. "Woah, what is it?" he asked, peering closer. "You like her?"

The phone felt like a live wire in my hand. I snatched it back from Ken, my gaze riveted to the screen. Several haunting thoughts fogged my mind. Alice? But how's that even possible? Is she my dead wife, impossibly alive and staring back at me? One mile away?

"This… this can't be real," I choked out, the words scraping raw against my throat. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

A manic grin stretched across Ken's face. He did a little jig, his wine sloshing precariously in the glass. "There you go, buddy! Finally picked a winner. Wait a minute… she looks like—"

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He took a second to gather himself, then scoffed. "Come on, Jordan. Cut it out. Haven't heard of doppelgangers? Or maybe it's a fake profile, man."

I yanked my wallet out of my pocket, the worn leather cool against my palm. Flipping it open, I retrieved a well-worn picture tucked away in a hidden compartment.

Zenya, her smile as radiant as the summer sun, beamed back at me. I thrust the photo next to the phone screen. "Look, Ken. Look at them both. Do you spot any difference? No! Because both of them are the same woman. She's my... wife. She's alive!"

Silence descended, thick and heavy. Ken's eyes darted between the photos, his brow furrowing in confusion. Finally, a strangled sound escaped his lips. "What the..."

"It can't be a coincidence," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "There has to be an explanation."

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Swiping through Alice's profile pictures, a cold dread settled in my gut. None of them, not a single one, were from Zenya's life. No pictures from our honeymoon in Paris, no goofy selfies at the local farmers market in Greece, none of the moments we'd captured over the years.

Ken cleared his throat, his voice tight. "Maybe it's a scam. Someone lifted your wife's pictures from social media, maybe photoshopped them a bit."

The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing over me. It made sense. "But why? Who would do something like that?"

"Who knows?" Ken threw his hands up in exasperation. "Look, the safest bet is to report the profile. Block it, move on, and find a real chick online. There's a whole sea of them, man. Just find one. Get her!"

But my finger hovered over the like button on Alice's profile, an irresistible pull urging me forward. With a click, I sent my like to her, a tiny spark of hope igniting in my chest.

Ken stared at me, his jaw slack with disbelief. "Are you out of your mind, Jordan? You're falling for some scammer's trap?"

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"I just... I need to see her," I rasped. "Meet her. Look into her eyes. And—"

"See what, Jordan? A catfish with a stolen picture?" Anger laced Ken's voice as he cut me off. "What's wrong with you? You can't just dig yourself deeper into this hole. Find a normal girl, someone real. There are plenty of them right here, right now."

He gestured towards the bar, where a sea of swirling skirts and flashing smiles beckoned. But my world had shrunk to the size of the phone screen, Alice's picture burning into my retinas.

"C'mon, Jo," Ken pleaded, his voice softening. "Dance with a girl, have a drink, maybe take her home. Just… let go."

His words echoed in the air, but they were mere background noise. My mind was a whirlwind, caught in the eye of a storm brewing with questions and a terrifying, exhilarating possibility: What if... what if Alice was Zenya?

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Ken slammed his glass on the table, the sound echoing through the bar. "Fine," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "If you want to mourn Zenya for the rest of your life, be my guest. You know what? I'm going to dance with that girl over there because I don't want to ruin my evening."

With a final glare, Ken stormed off, disappearing into the throng of people. I was alone, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. But even as a knot of fear tightened in my stomach, a sliver of hope, fragile yet persistent, flickered within me.

I just needed a hint, something… anything from Alice.

The phone felt heavy in my hand, so I set it down on the sticky counter.

My gaze darted around the bar, the usual Friday night revelry failing to register. All I could see was the tiny notification icon blinking on the screen, a silent promise, a terrifying threat.

Moments stretched into an eternity, the din of the bar a dull roar in my ears. Then, a chime pierced the noise, followed by a garish explosion of pink hearts across my phone screen. I grabbed the phone, a tremor coursing through my hand that I almost dropped it.

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A single message from Alice sat there, devoid of punctuation but brimming with possibility. "Hello, I'm not used to texting first to guys, but you've got me very interested..."

My breath hitched. Hesitantly, I began to type, each keystroke echoing in the cavernous space of my head: "Hello! Ask away. What interests you?" The question hung there, flimsy and transparent, a desperate attempt at normalcy.

I was pretending. I wish I had someone nearby to tell them how nervous I was.

With trembling fingers, I hit send, a wave of nausea washing over me. Three years. Three years since I'd last texted a woman, my thumbs forgetting the familiar dance of conversation.

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The thought of flirting, of weaving words into a web of attraction, felt like a betrayal to Zenya's memory. No woman could ever take her place, not in my heart, not in this life, or a million more.

The phone buzzed again. Another message from Alice, a digital lifeline thrown across the vast emptiness I'd built around myself: "Have I seen you somewhere before? You look familiar..."

The words sent a jolt through me. Was it a coincidence? Or did she…? I typed a response, my heart pounding against my ribs: "Maybe you did. How about we meet tomorrow at 8 at Apollo? What do you think?"

My thumb hovered over the emoji button, a childish impulse warring with the gravity of the situation. With a self-deprecating chuckle, I sent a melting face emoji, instantly regretting the juvenile gesture.

"An emoji? Seriously, Jo? You idiot!" I muttered under my breath.

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The reply came quicker than I anticipated: "Hah, and you're brave. Let's try. See you."

I stared at the message, the words blurring at the edges. A date. With a woman who looked exactly like my dead wife. A shiver ran down my spine, a cocktail of fear and morbid curiosity swirling in my gut.

Sliding the phone into my pocket, I took a long, deep breath. I was going on a date. Not with just any woman. With a ghost from my past, a living reflection of a love I thought I'd lost forever.

I was afraid. Afraid of the truth. But I had to go, no matter what. And find out who she really was. If she was indeed Alice... or.

***

Sleep was a stubborn visitor that night, refusing to grace my eyelids for more than fleeting moments. Every time I squeezed my eyes shut, a constellation of cherished memories would erupt behind them.

Zenya's laugh echoing in the kitchen, the warmth of her hand slipping into mine on a brisk autumn walk, the phantom scent of her lavender perfume clinging to a pillow I hadn't dared touch.

Each fragment felt so vivid, so undeniably real, that Alice's pictures on the phone screen seemed like a pale imitation, a ghost flickering at the edges of my grief.

The following evening, I stood before the mirror, the crisp black suit feeling more like a costume than attire. In my hand, I clutched a framed picture of Zenya, a silent plea escaping my lips.

"Are you alive?" I choked out, the words raw and heavy. A lump formed in my throat, threatening to spill over into tears. I blinked them back.

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With a shaky breath, I tucked the picture away and stepped out into the cool night air. The Apollo Café, a cozy haven tucked away in a bustling part of town, awaited.

Each tick of my watch hammered against the silence like a tiny, insistent fist. I swiped through Zenya's pictures on my phone, a silent mantra forming in my head. "Come on, come soon. Show yourself. If you're really her..."

A voice pierced through the fog of my thoughts. "Who are you talking to?"

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. There she was, Alice, a living echo of the woman in the Tinder profile. My jaw clenched, and the phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I didn't mean to scare you like that."

She reached down, her hand hovering near mine before pulling back. "Is your phone alright?"

I bent down, my fingers trembling as I retrieved it. "Yeah, it's fine," I mumbled.

The air crackled with a nervous energy. Alice was beautiful, undeniably so. But the resemblance to Zenya was a constant undercurrent, pulling me into a whirlpool of confusion and hope.

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The brown leather seat swallowed me whole, the worn surface offering a cold, impersonal comfort. Across from me, Alice sat, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

It wasn't a cold smile, not a stranger's smile, but it wasn't the familiar warmth I craved. It held a flicker of something... Hesitant? Apprehensive? My mind, a tangled mess of emotions, couldn't quite decipher it.

Words felt like cobblestones, heavy and difficult to navigate. My throat constricted, a dry cough escaping my lips. "This phone," I finally croaked, "it's... tough. It's a gift from…" My voice trailed off, the sentence dissolving into the swirling thoughts bombarding me.

Was I supposed to say 'Zenya'? How could I explain the impossible? Her gaze, so like Zenya's yet undeniably different, held me captive.

Alice raised an eyebrow, her expression curious. "From who?"

I couldn't say it. Not yet. Just then, a waiter with a friendly smile materialized beside our table.

Seizing the opportunity, I leaned in and whispered to the guy. "Can you, uh, see her too? I mean…"

The waiter's smile widened, and his brows arched in confusion. "Of course, sir! I can see your lady! You're a lucky guy!" He winked before walking away, leaving me speechless.

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Alice watched the exchange, her brow furrowed. "What did you ask him? Why was he smiling like that?"

I cleared my throat, the words sticking in my dry mouth. "Nothing. Just... I'll look at the menu. We can order in five minutes."

The facade I was trying to maintain felt like a house of cards, ready to crumble at the slightest breeze. The woman sitting across from me was an enigma, a beautiful reflection of a past I couldn't escape.

As I stared into her curious eyes, a single, terrifying question echoed in my mind: Was she Alice, or was she a ghost in disguise?

Alice's smile faltered, a flicker of concern replacing the amusement in her eyes. "Hey, are you okay? You seem really on edge."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... nervous, I guess. First Tinder date and all, you know…" It was a half-truth, but enough to explain away some of my erratic behavior.

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"Honestly, me too," she admitted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Haven't really done the whole dating scene in, well..." she trailed off, a hint of sadness tinging her voice.

"How long?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

She shrugged, a fleeting smile playing on her lips. "Three years or so. Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

The number hit me like a physical blow. Three years. The exact same timeframe Zenya had been gone and declared dead. Curiosity gnawed at me, a tangled mess of hope and fear twisting in my gut.

"What happened three years ago?" I pressed, leaning closer. "Tell me, Alice."

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A flicker of vulnerability crossed her features, then a steely resolve settled in her eyes. "It's a long story, and honestly, not one I'm comfortable sharing on a first date," she dismissed.

Disappointment pricked at me, but I forced a smile. "Hey, it's okay," I said, my voice gentle. "This whole situation is... unexpected, to say the least. But listen, if there's anything you ever need to talk about, anything at all, I want you to know you can trust me."

She rolled her eyes, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Look, how about we focus on the present? You seem like an interesting guy, Jordan. Let's just see where the night takes us, alright? But since we're on a date, let me properly introduce myself."

There was a disarming honesty in her gaze, a vulnerability that mirrored my own. Then, she reached into her purse, pulling out a delicate silver chain. She lifted it to her neck and fastened the clasp.

"This is weird," she mused, her voice laced with a hint of wonder. "My name is Alice, but I have this pendant with a K on it."

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A jolt of electricity shot through me. That pendant. I recognized it instantly. The delicate silver chain, the metallic K glinting in the dim light — it was the one I'd given Zenya, a symbol of our love, a promise whispered when we first kissed under the starlit Manhattan skies.

Unable to contain myself any longer, the word exploded from my lips.

"KITTY!"

Alice froze, her eyes widening in shock. "What? What did you just say?"

My heart raced. "The pendant," I stammered, gathering every ounce of courage I could. "K... it stands for Kitty. That's what I used to call her. That's what I used to call you."

Alice stared at me in disbelief. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale and trembling.

"What are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

A deep breath rasped through my throat, the air catching in my lungs. "Zenya," I said, the name tasting foreign on my tongue after three years of choked-back whispers.

Alice's face crumpled, the shock morphing into a grimace. "What kind of sick joke is this?" Her voice trembled, sharp and laced with anger.

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"It's not a joke," I pleaded. "Three years ago... your car. It was found in the lake after you got into an accident…. and…" My words tumbled over each other, a jumbled mess of a memory I'd relived a thousand times in my head.

"My car?" She scoffed, disbelief etched on her features. "I don't understand... or remember what you're talking about."

Panic clawed at my throat. "The police, the search..." I continued, my voice rising with each word. "They never found your body, Zenya. They declared you dead, but I never believed it. Not for a single second. Not once in these three years. I knew you were alive. I just knew it."

"Zenya?" she echoed. "That's not my name. It's Alice. The nurse called me that when I woke up in the hospital. I'd hit my head. I couldn't remember anything. An older couple had seemingly admitted me, but I never had the chance to meet them again."

She fumbled with her purse, her movements jerky and frantic. Her wrist turned towards me, revealing a delicate tattoo etched onto the skin: 'Alice'.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "Zenya loved her grandmother, Alice," I rasped, the memory a warm ember amidst the confusion. "She worshipped the ground she walked on. Even got her name tattooed on her wrist."

A flicker of unease settled on her Alice's. "My grandmother, Alice...?" she murmured. "I don't remember having such a grandmother."

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"Maybe," I continued, my voice choked with emotion, "when you woke up in that hospital, confused, disoriented... you saw the tattoo and thought it was your name."

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Alice stared at her reflection, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. The gears in her mind seemed to be turning, a storm brewing behind her eyes.

"So you're saying..." she began, "the accident, the lake... I was supposed to be dead? And I'm your wife?"

I reached across the table, my hand hovering over hers. "Yes. And you're not dead. You're here. With me, Zenya."

"Stop it!" Alice snapped, her voice sharp with annoyance. "My name's Alice, not some Zenya. And I'm single, not married. Where's my wedding ring if I'm married?" she demanded, her voice laced with a tremor of fear and confusion. "If you're my husband, why can't I remember you? This is all a lie"

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My grip tightened around her hands, a desperate plea escaping my lips. "Zenya, darling, please. Don't you remember me? Remember how we met in college, under the old oak tree by the library?"

Her eyes held a flicker of confusion, but it was quickly replaced by a frustrating look. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice tight. "You've got the wrong person. I need to go."

But I couldn't let her go. The possibility of losing her again, this time with her full awareness, was a terrifying prospect. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision.

"Paris, Zenya," I rasped, my voice thick with emotion. "Our honeymoon in Paris. Remember all those cute selfies you took with me against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower?"

A faint crease appeared between her brows, a flicker of something akin to recognition. But it vanished as quickly as it came. "I don't remember any of that," she said, her voice flat. "This is crazy. Please, stop this circus."

My grip on her hands tightened, a silent plea for her to stay. I didn't want to hurt her. But I couldn't let her go. Not again.

She flinched, pulling her hands away with a gasp. "Don't touch me!"

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Panic surged through me. "Wait, Zenya, please," I stammered. "Just try to remember. Every Saturday night, horror movie marathons? You'd always get scared and rain popcorn all over me."

A faint murmur tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. "Look," she said, her voice calmer now, but laced with a steely edge. "I clearly made a mistake coming here. This whole thing is bizarre."

She reached for her bag, her intention to leave clear.

"The beach, Zenya," I pleaded, ignoring the sting of rejection in her voice. "We used to sit on the sand for hours, watching the full moon rise over the ocean. Remember?"

Her anger flared. "This is ridiculous!" she scoffed. "You're clearly out of your mind. I suggest you leave me alone."

Her words hit me like a physical blow, the wind knocked out of my sails. But I couldn't give up. Not yet. Not now when I had her this close.

Frustration bubbled up within me, threatening to spill over. "This can't be it, Zenya! This can't be all we have. How would I know about the pendant if I wasn't the one who gave it to you?"

Her eyes widened a fraction, a flicker of alarm replacing the anger.

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"Your tattoo…" I pressed, my voice gaining a desperate edge. "And the scar on your inner thigh, right side? From that nasty fall you took when we were kids?"

The blood drained from her face, leaving her a pale ghost. "H-How do you know about that?" she whispered.

"Because I'm your husband, Zenya!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. "You're scared of heights, remember? Turbulence on airplanes makes you a nervous wreck."

A beat of stunned silence followed. Then, she scoffed. "Scared of heights? That's ridiculous." As if to prove her point, she straightened her posture, her chin held high.

But I wasn't giving up. "And you hate it when someone snaps their fingers at you," I added, snapping my fingers right in front of her face.

She flinched, a tremor running through her body. Her eyes darted around the room like a trapped bird seeking escape.

Just then, I spotted something under the table. It was a fluffy brown teddy bear I'd carried along, half-hidden by the tablecloth. I reached down and retrieved it, the worn fabric a familiar comfort in my hand.

"Remember this?" I held the bear out to her, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. "Your favorite bear. You used to sleep with it every night. You called it Mr. Snuggles. It was a gift from your Grandma, remember?"

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Alice stared at the teddy bear, her expression a mask of confusion and dawning horror. "This is insane," she finally managed, her voice trembling. "I'm leaving."

She reached for her bag, her resolve solidifying with each passing moment. Panic surged through me. I couldn't let her walk away.

"Wait!" I cried, desperation lacing my voice. I lunged for her hand, stopping her in her tracks.

The returning waiter cleared his throat, his presence momentarily breaking the tense spell. "Is everything alright, miss?" he inquired, his gaze flickering between us.

"Yes, everything's fine," she replied curtly, her voice strained. "I'm just leaving."

I ignored her, turning to the waiter instead. "Actually," I interjected. "We can go ahead and order now. She'll have her favorite Seared Scallops for an appetizer, the Fettuccine Alfredo for the main course, and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc."

Alice's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

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A gentle tug on my hand yanked me back to reality. Alice's grip was surprisingly firm, her voice laced with a strained sympathy. "Look," she said, looking me in the eye, "I know this is hard for you. But you need to move on. You're mistaking me for someone else, for your late wife. I'm not her. I don't know you."

Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't speak.

"I understand your pain," she continued, her voice soft. "But I can't pretend to be someone I'm not. Maybe the scar, the tattoo — those could be coincidences, a lucky guess on your part. But the rest of it..." she trailed off.

A single tear escaped my eye, tracing a glistening path down my cheek as she continued. "You talked about movies, about the beach, about plane rides... none of it rings a bell. I wish it did, truly. But it doesn't."

Her hand, cool and gentle, squeezed my shoulder. "You need to move on, Jordan. For your own sake... and for the peace of your wife."

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Alice closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of sadness washing over her features. "Maybe it's not," she admitted when she opened them again, her gaze filled with a deep empathy. "Maybe on some subconscious level, I remind you of her. But that doesn't change who I am, or who you are."

She took a deep breath, her grip tightening on her handbag straps. "We probably shouldn't have met," she said, turning her back on me. "And for that, I'm truly sorry. If anything about me — my face, my smile, the way I hold myself — if it brought back painful memories, then I'm deeply sorry, Jordan."

With a final lingering look, a look that held a mixture of sadness and understanding, Alice turned and began to walk away.

"Goodbye, Jordan," she called back over her shoulder, her voice barely a whisper lost in the din of the restaurant. "This won't happen again."

Despair clawed at me as I watched Alice leave me. Her words echoed in the hollowness of my chest: 'Goodbye!' A choked sob escaped my lips, a ragged sound mirroring the ruins of my hope.

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Just as I slumped back in my chair, defeated, a memory flickered to life. A memory not of us, but of Zenya. A small, velvet box, nestled amongst my keepsakes. The tiny music box I'd brought along.

With trembling fingers, I fished it out of my pocket. It was worn with age, the silver tarnished around the edges. But the melody it held... that was timeless. With a shaking breath, I wound the lever using the tiny ring on its side.

The first notes filled the air, a sweet, melancholic tune that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken words. The clatter of silverware and murmur of conversation faded away, replaced by the melody that danced between the tables.

And then, a miracle.

Alice stopped. Her back stiffened, her head snapping towards the source of the music. Her eyes widened, a flicker of recognition battling with confusion on her face.

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The music box continued its song, each note a poignant reminder of everything we'd shared. Movie nights spent huddled together, a bowl of popcorn overflowing in my lap, Zenya's playful shoves as she tried to steal a handful.

Long drives through the countryside, the wind whipping through her hair as she sang along to the radio, her voice a melody far sweeter than any song. Laughter echoing in our tiny kitchen, flour dusting the air like a snowfall, Zenya playfully smearing frosting on my nose as I knelt before her, a ring nestled in this same velvet box.

"Yes!" she'd shrieked, tears glittering in her eyes, a radiant smile splitting her face in two when I'd popped the question.

The music sputtered to a stop, the silence deafening after the sweet serenade. She turned slowly, her eyes searching the room, landing on me. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over like a dam overflowing.

A single word, choked with emotion, escaped my lips. "KITTY!"

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As if propelled by an invisible force, Zenya, my Zenya, rushed towards me. The clatter of her chair toppling over went unnoticed amidst the storm of emotions swirling around us. She threw herself into my arms, her body wracked with sobs.

"How?" she gasped, burying her face in my chest. "How did you know?"

I held her tightly, the world fading away until all that remained was the frantic beat of her heart against mine and the salty tang of her tears.

"I never stopped believing," I rasped. "The musical ring box... it was our song, Zenya. Remember?"

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine. A wave of recognition washed over her features, a tear tracing a glistening path down her cheek.

"The library..." she murmured, the fog in her eyes clearing. "The accident... I woke up in the hospital, everything a blur."

"I'm so sorry, Jordan," she choked out, a sob escaping her lips. "For everything. For forgetting you, for driving so fast that day. What made you believe I wasn't gone?"

Cupping her face, my gaze locked on hers. "Kitty, I missed you so much. I'll never leave you alone again. I'm so sorry for not picking you up from the library that day."

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A soft chuckle escaped her lips, the sound like music to my ears. She reached up, her fingers brushing against my lips, silencing the apologies before they could tumble out.

Then, she kissed me. A kiss filled with a lifetime of longing, a promise of forever whispered on trembling lips.

The world around us melted away. There was only us, the echo of our love song, and a new beginning bathed in the soft glow of hope.

Zenya was back. My Zenya. And by God, I wouldn't let anything, anything at all, tear us apart again. Not fate, not time, not even death itself. From this moment on, I'd spend every breath cherishing her, protecting her, making sure she knew just how deeply, irrevocably... I loved her.

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Not all love stories have a happy ending, do they? Well, I was so excited to tell my boyfriend I was pregnant with our baby, the symbol of our love. I thought he would be delighted and shower both me and my belly with kisses. Instead, he ruthlessly kicked me out of his house. Here's my story.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone's life. If you would like to share your story, please send it to info@amomama.com.