I lie tethered to a ventilator, scrolling through comments from strangers.

My blog "Dedicated to D" has become public spectacle. I'm curious—do others find my life as pathetic as I do?


(First Entry)

Mom's death anniversary today.

He skipped his Columbia lecture to accompany me to the cemetery.


Light rain fell. Under the cemetery pavilion, wind drove droplets beneath our shelter.

He positioned himself between me and the rain.


I asked what he was doing.

"Keeping you dry," he said.

He promised to give me a home.

(Second Entry)

We got married.

The Blackwoods objected violently—broke his leg. From his hospital bed, he told them they might as well kill him if they wouldn't let him marry me.

They disowned him. We moved into a crumbling Queens walkup.

He held me while we both cried. Swore he'd give me the life I deserved.

(Third Entry)

I designed our wedding rings.

When he slipped it on my finger, I clung to him, sobbing.

He wept too, apologizing for the tiny diamond.

He never understood it meant more to me than any Harry Winston masterpiece ever could.

(Fourth Entry)

Two years later, he'd become Wall Street's golden boy.

My paintings started selling too.

We moved to a Central Park West penthouse.

Anniversary gifts grew increasingly extravagant.

His circle expanded daily.

Today a business partner "gifted" him a woman.

For the first time, he lost his composure publicly.

He began bringing me to every function.

"Beside Damian Blackwood," he declared, "there will only ever be Aurora Vance."

(Fifth Entry)

How could he cheat?

How could he betray me?

I stare at my reflection. Am I no longer beautiful? Have I aged beyond desire?

Why would he do this to me?

(Sixth Entry)

That actress is stunning.

And calculating.

A few words, some photos, and I shattered.

I concede. She won.

I filed for divorce.

Slunk back to my shabby apartment in defeat.

(Seventh Entry)

I'm losing my mind.

Stop checking her social media. Stop torturing yourself.

Nobody is irreplaceable.

I'll survive alone.

(Eighth Entry)

We remarried.

My life's already in ruins. Nothing matters anymore.

Maybe death will finally free me.

(Ninth Entry)

So this is what cheating feels like.

It's hollow.

(Tenth Entry)

My stomach is on fire.

The pain makes me wish for death.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.

I'll finally be free.

【Comments Section】

"Jesus Christ… her story wrecked me. Can't stop crying."

"Are you kidding me? She brought this on herself. He cheated and she STILL went back to him. Zero sympathy."

"That's harsh, man. She's genuinely tragic—traumatic childhood, twenty years invested, they struggled together. Walking away isn't simple when he's literally all you have."

"Found this through the Sienna Ross scandal. Never expected the wife's side would gut me like this…"

"Hope every cheater burns in hell."

Damian gently removed the phone from my grip.

We locked eyes, silence stretching between us.

He scrolled through the comments, then the entries. Witnessing our journey from love to betrayal. Seeing how I transformed from a vibrant young woman to a bitter shell, and finally to this—a dying patient.

For the first time, he truly saw my suffering—raw and unfiltered.

"I'm so sorry…"

He crumpled to his knees, tears streaming unchecked.

"I didn't realize… Lori… I had no idea how much you were suffering…"

"I'm a monster," he clutched my hand, tears splashing onto my skin. "God, I'm so sorry."

I felt nothing.

Perhaps death truly is the only certainty worth acknowledging. After such profound suffering, facing my mortality left me with nothing but bone-deep weariness.

Darkness claimed me again.

Before consciousness slipped away, I heard Damian unraveling beside me.

He roared at the doctors, demanding they save me.

Like a child refusing to accept a broken toy can't be fixed.

But "life and death are predetermined"—his own words when he first abandoned me.