The day I went to see him was a bright, sunny day. The sunlight felt like a new life shining on me.
Ethan was sitting in the courtyard, wearing a loose hospital gown, holding one of my old clothes. He no longer had his previous arrogant demeanor.
“When he heard that your plane had crashed, he went mad on the spot. Day and night, he holds your clothes, crying and regretting,” his parents told me.
He sat there, his eyes unfocused, mumbling constantly, “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.”
He didn’t go mad when Lily “died,” but he did when I “died.”
I had always been unwilling to believe that Ethan loved me, and I had always been unwilling to admit that in many moments, my feelings for him were also real.
I had used so many people, but in the end, the person I hated the most was myself.
After all, Ethan was the most innocent one.
I crouched in front of him and called out softly, “Ethan, it’s me, Natalie.”
He looked up blankly, glanced at me, and quickly lowered his head again.
“Natalie is dead. Natalie is dead. I let her down.”
I remembered that night seven years ago when the young man desperately pulled me ashore, repeatedly shouting, “Live! Live!”
My nose stung, and tears welled up.
“Ethan, I’m sorry. Don’t forgive me.”
Ethan frantically wiped away my tears. “Why are you crying? Did someone bully you? Don’t cry, don’t cry.”
1 smiled and stood up, patting Ethan’s head.
“No one bullied me. I’m crying because I’m happy.”
“Why do you cry when you’re happy?”
“Because I’ve been given a new life:
