Twisted Ties of Love

Izabella methodically twisted the balloon in her hands, her face a blank canvas of concentration. The buzzing of Brett's voice filled the room, which kept grating on her nerves, a distracting murmur that made it

impossible for her to find peace.

With a sudden "Pop!" the balloon in her grasp exploded from the pressure.

"Can't you just zip it, Brett? Stop dredging up the past, will ya?" she snapped, her voice laced with irritation.NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

Brett licked his chapped lips, and said with a hoarse voice barely above a whisper, "But all I have left are memories."

"You know who always dwells on the past?" Izabella scoffed, before answering her own rhetorical question, "People who are about to kick the bucket."

"What if I told you I am dying, Izabella?"

"Then hurry up and do it. Stop talking about it and just do it," she retorted, with an icy and unforgiving gaze, as if she were looking at an enemy.

Brett paused, and his eyes turned unfocused and lost as he stared at the remnants of the burst balloon. He remembered how Izabella used to fuss over him, how she kept perfecting her cooking only to suit his tastes, even though he wouldn't so much as take a bite. She'd cook for him every day for 1,364 days straight, and wait quietly for him to glance her way. She was satisfied with just that.

She was always swamped with work, yet she would knit him scarves, even in cold winters when her hands would tremble so much that signing her name would be a stiff ordeal.

He had a temper, but she always put up with him, even if it meant being his punching bag.

The pain of her stomach cancer was so excruciating that even made her vomit blood. Yet, in order to leave him quietly, she never breathed a word about it.

The more Brett thought about how good Izabella had been to him, the more uncontrollably he thought of how poorly he'd treated her. Maybe Izabella was right; perhaps only those who're close to death would cling to the past because once you're gone, there's no remembering.

On their wedding day, Izabella had single-handedly managed everything. It was a simple ceremony, which simply invited the media. She had blown up 520 balloons by herself, filled every corner of the room with balloons and tied them to the banisters.

She prepared 1,314 red envelopes and the same number of wedding candies-all on her own; her fingers ached from the repetitive task. It wasn't that they couldn't afford help; she just thought it would be more meaningful to do it herself.

After popping the balloon, Bella dropped it, seemingly no longer interested in the task.

What's the point of all these meaningful gestures if you're not willing to do them? Without the will, even the grandest gestures are meaningless.

When the hard times are over, who wants to remember the difficult path they've walked?

She didn't need to inflate many balloons; a token effort would suffice. Brett cut out a cat-shaped paper silhouette, which was reminiscent of their cat Niki, and stuck it on the window. The red color was striking, but staring at it too long made her eyes ache.

-Brett, when we have kids, if it's a girl, we'll name her Maggie, and if it's a boy, we'll call him Bennett. We'll also get a cat named Niki.

Without Izabella's involvement, Brett stayed up all night and finally managed to finish the preparations by the next morning. Christmas was still days away, so there was no rush. His late-night endeavor seemed like a preparation for something else.

Bella hadn't received a reply to the text she sent to Casey, and she felt an inexplicable restlessness. Her right eyelid twitched uncontrollably as she sat up in bed, so she gently patted it, hoping to calm the persistent twitch.

When Brett entered the room and saw Bella holding her forehead, he assumed she had a headache. "What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"

After a few more spasms, her eyelid finally relaxed.

"Brett," Izabella called out to him.

"What is it?" he responded. Bella rarely called him by his name unless it was serious.

Bella laughed bitterly, recalling the words he'd spoken as he held her lifeless body. She hadn't told anyone about her brief time as a spirit after her death, but now, she suddenly longed to see Casey. "You said that if I were alive, you'd do anything for me, even if it meant letting me go willingly. But you haven't kept your word," she said, feeling her memory sharp as ever.

Whenever she got hurt and ended up in the hospital, she could see the regret on Brett's face, but he would soon fall back into old patterns.

Again and again, she endured serious intention, harsh lessons, wavering resolve, soft-heartedness, bitterness, sorrow, torment, heartache, mistakes, forgiveness, and indifference—each time she told herself that she deserved all the suffering.

"Right, I almost forgot that, you, President Windham, were the kind who can lie even to a godfather. Now you're reaping what you sowed, and you're even less likely to be responsible for your past promises," she mocked.

Brett asked quietly, "Do you really want to leave me that badly?"

"I never wanted to stay by your side."

Brett wasn't angered by Bella's words, nor was he saddened.

"I won't have you for much longer, Izabella. Spend Christmas Eve with me, and I'll let you go. I mean it this time—I'm not lying. You know my condition," he said earnestly.

Only then did Izabella look up at him. "What's the catch?" she demanded.

She didn't believe for a second that Brett would let her go that easily. There had to be some trickery-a plan behind it.

Brett silently looked at her before stepping out and returning with a list, which he placed on the bed.

"We have a week until Christmas Eve. If you spend this week with me and fulfill these wishes for me, I won't stop you from leaving. I won't harm anyone close to you either." Izabella didn't reach for the list; instead, she studied it intently. There were roughly twenty items on the wish list.

A third was already accomplished; these were the things Brett had done with Izabella when they returned to J City.

They dated like an ordinary couple, visited his parents' graves on a bike ride, and prepared for Christmas together.

The remaining items included cooking together, choosing rings, wearing a wedding dress and spending Christmas Eve together.

Izabella furrowed her brow at the sight before her, a hint of annoyance flickering across her face. Where did Brett get the audacity to even consider these things?

The very thought of dressing in a wedding gown for Brett made her skin crawl. So, without a second thought, Izabella crumpled the checklist into a ball and lobbed it at Brett's face. It was just a piece of paper; i couldn't possibly hurt.

But Brett still flinched, turning his head slightly as if he had been slapped.

"Was that really necessary? Do you honestly believe that any of this matters to us, Brett?"

"Maybe it doesn't to you, but it does to me," Brett replied. His so-called bucket list wasn't about wishes; it was his last hoorah. Brett wasn't one to play the pity card to get what he wanted. He might have presented a tough exterior, but on the inside, he was like a piece of weathered stone-so desiccated that even the slightest touch of moisture could crumble it.

The deeper he felt a sense of loss, the more he wanted to use brute force to grasp that elusive feeling of fulfillment.

"I'll make you a deal," Brett

continued, with a hint of desperation in his voice. "Complete this list with me, and I'll let you go. But if you refuse, you're stuck with me forever. I might be seriously ill, but medical advancements are happening every day The blood I cough up is lessening, and who knows, I might just pull through. You managed to find a breakthrough cancer

treatment abroad for your late-stage

stomach cancer; maybe there's

hope for me too."

Izabella had only come to Brett's side after learning through a text message that he was on his deathbed. She was worried that in his final moments, this madman might drag someone down with him.

She remained here, enduring his

presence, because he was

supposedly nearing the end. Life, she mused, was like a candle. Some flames flicker out abruptly, some burn weakly but last until the end, and others blaze fiercely but only for a fleeting moment.

Her candle, at least from what she could see, seemed to have a longer wick than Brett's, and was thus destined to burn longer. That was the one area she could claim victory over him.

But what if Brett didn't die?

Izabella couldn't take that gamble. She wouldn't bet on who of them would live longer, nor could she trust that Brett's words were true this time.

"I don't believe you, nor do I dare to," Izabella said, her voice cold and steady. "But I've already died once before. I'm not afraid to die again, right before your eyes."