When my boyfriend, Mike, was reported missing after an accident during a geological survey, he managed to send back only three final messages. The first was a formal work update. The second was an apology to his parents. The third was a single sentence: “Kendra, you are my Quaternary Ice Age.” Kendra was my best friend. They were both brilliant geologists. Years ago, behind my back, they had applied to the exact same university program. Later, they became the most synchronized research partners in their field. Back then, just to understand the technical jargon they threw back and forth, I had forced myself to apply for a major transfer into geology. But in the end, I was nothing more than an errand girl in the research lab. Mike used to comfort me. “Everyone has their own strengths, Chloe. I’m just happy you’re my girlfriend.” Yet whenever he looked at Kendra, his eyes were always filled with that quiet, wistful admiration. And even in his dying moments, he used a language I could never decipher to confess his love to her. Not long after, Kendra died in a separate field accident. Because of their academic achievements, our alma mater buried them side by side as honored alumni. I lived the rest of my life consumed by quiet, suffocating regret. Then I opened my eyes—and found myself right back on the day I submitted my major transfer application in my junior year. Looking at the group chat on my phone, where the two of them were eagerly chatting while completely ignoring me, I let out a soft smile and hit “Cancel” on the transfer request. This time, I wasn’t going to spend my life chasing after them. … Even after I withdrew my transfer application, the group chat kept buzzing with non-stop notifications. The two of them were locked in a fiery back-and-forth. I typed out a quick message: “Have you guys eaten yet?” It was instantly swallowed up, swept away into the digital void like spam. Not a single person acknowledged it. Originally, the chat had been started to plan my birthday celebration for tomorrow. I had no idea at what point it had morphed into a dense technical debate on soil stratification that left me completely on the outside looking in. Without overthinking it, I tapped the screen and left the group chat. I didn’t expect Mike to send a single question mark within seconds. Then Kendra messaged me too. I didn’t reply. Moments later, my phone rang. Mike’s voice came through the speaker, as smooth and gentle as ever. “Chloe, why did you leave the group?” He didn’t notice my silence, offering a familiar, gently persuasive tone instead. “Kendra set up that chat for all of us. Throwing a sudden tantrum and leaving really hurts her feelings.” “If something’s bothering you, let’s talk tomorrow when we see each other, alright? Rejoin the chat first.” Even knowing I had been brushed aside, his immediate instinct was still to protect Kendra’s feelings. I sat motionless on the edge of my bed. The phone suddenly felt unbearably heavy in my palm, pressing down until it was hard to breathe. After hanging up, I rejoined the chat. But I didn’t send another message. The next morning, I was jolted awake from a light sleep by a barrage of phone calls. Kendra’s voice was bright and full of energy. “Chloe! Hurry up and come downstairs! We’ve got to celebrate your birthday before our afternoon lecture!” Out of habit, I dragged myself out of bed according to their schedule. It wasn’t until I reached the front of the dorm building that reality fully settled in. Before I could say anything, Kendra threw her arms around me in a tight hug. Mike followed right behind her, his face lit up with a warm smile, looking for all the world like “her” devoted boyfriend. Kendra pulled out an intricately wrapped gift box with an air of mystery. “Open it! Mike and I picked this out together for you.” Looking at the elegant packaging—identical to the one in my past life—I felt zero urge to untie the ribbon. Because I already knew what was inside: a generic, childish plush doll that boiled me down to a hollow caricature. In my past life, I had opened it with starry-eyed anticipation, only to feel like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. Kendra and Mike had been brimming with excitement. “Isn’t it great? We spent so long picking it out—we both thought it looked just like you!” Back then, I hadn’t seen through them. It wasn’t until three months later, on Kendra’s birthday, when Mike went through endless backchannels to purchase a real piece of a lunar meteorite as her gift, that I finally understood what real effort looked like. I accepted the box with a flat expression. “Thanks.” Kendra pouted slightly. “Why do you look so down, Chloe?” Mike answered casually for me. “She’s been busy dealing with her major transfer paperwork these past couple of days. She’s just tired, not upset.” He certainly knew what I was busy with, considering he was the one who had convinced me to switch in the first place. At the time, Mike had told me: “If your current major is too exhausting, just transfer into geology with me. Kendra and I will protect you.” So, without a second thought, I had applied to transfer in my junior year. Yet later, when my lab advisor chewed me out for lacking foundational knowledge, Mike was the one who sighed with thinly veiled impatience: “You were the one who insisted on studying geology, Chloe, even knowing you weren’t built for it.” Listening to his confident assumption now, a quiet smile touched my lips. Neither of them had any idea that I was no longer transferring. Kendra nodded, grabbing my arm to pull me toward a nearby bistro. As soon as we sat down, Mike walked out from the kitchen area holding a birthday cake. The moment my eyes fell on the rich, sticky chocolate frosting, my stomach lurched with a sudden wave of nausea. “Why chocolate cake again?” Mike answered with total nonchalance. “You don’t really care for cake anyway, so I let Kendra pick.” Kendra chimed in, her tone sweet and playful. “Chocolate is delicious! Honestly, Chloe, you really should try expanding your palate.” “I don’t eat chocolate.” They both knew perfectly well that chocolate made me sick, yet every single time, Mike deferred to Kendra’s preference. Mike gave me an unusual, lingering glance. But before he could say anything, Kendra enthusiastically switched off the dining room lights. He pulled his probing gaze back. The tiny flame on the single candle flickered softly. Mike urged me impatiently, “Make a wish, Chloe.” I didn’t have the stomach for the spectacle, so I half-closed my eyes. Through the faint golden glow of the candlelight, I saw Kendra excitedly putting on the cardboard birthday crown, closing her eyes to make a wish right along with me. The warm candle flame illuminated Mike’s face beside her—and the tender, utterly devoted gaze he fixed entirely on Kendra. A sharp, sour ache surged through my chest, followed by a wave of repulsed clarity. So every single birthday I had celebrated had actually been shared with Kendra. No wonder the wish I made every single year—”I hope the three of us stay happy together forever”—had never come true. I hardly touched a bite for the rest of the meal. Mike looked over at me several times, but he didn’t ask a single question, clearly trying to avoid an unpleasant scene. Walking back to campus after lunch, I was initially walking between the two of them. Before long, they dove into a dense conversation about their research project. Step by step, without even realizing it, I was nudged off the sidewalk and onto the street below. They walked close together, laughing and talking in an effortless rhythm. It wasn’t until we reached the front gates of their university that Mike finally stopped and turned around, a helpless chuckle in his eyes. “How did you fall so far behind again?” He paused, then added, “I won’t walk you back to your dorm then. You can make it back on your own, right?” I looked up at the stone archway of their campus, watching couples walking hand in hand into the courtyard. A bitter irony settled in my chest. When we applied for college years ago, we had all agreed to go to the same university. Yet an hour before the application system closed, the two of them secretly changed their first choice to the elite institute right next door. They hid it from me for half a month, until the acceptance letters officially arrived. At the time, Mike had brushed it off with a casual excuse: “Their geology program is ranked much higher. We couldn’t just compromise our futures for your sake.” Kendra had smoothed things over too: “It’s no big deal! The campuses are literally right across the street from each other. We’re still together!” Yet over three years of college, every single walk back to my dorm had been taken completely alone. I pulled my gaze back, my expression entirely blank. “Sure.” Mike stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face. Suddenly, he said, “Actually, let me walk you.” Before the words fully landed, Kendra let out a soft, mournful sigh. “Aww, but our lab session starts in ten minutes! Chloe can walk a few blocks by herself, can’t she?” Mike frowned slightly, looking at me in silent conflict. I said calmly, “Don’t bother.” The tension instantly drained from his brow. “Alright. Next time then.” I turned on my heel and walked away. After taking only a dozen steps, I pulled out my phone and typed out a text to Mike: “Let me make it easy for you. Let’s break up.” Not long after sending it, hurried, panicked footsteps crunched against the pavement behind me. Mike caught up, his hand clamping tightly around my wrist. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? Don’t make jokes like that.” “I’m not joking.” Mike let out a light, nervous laugh, reaching out to tuck a windblown strand of hair behind my ear. “Have you just been in a bad mood lately? If something’s bothering you, just talk to me.” He glanced back in Kendra’s direction, his voice dropping slightly. “But don’t bring this drama to Kendra. It’s finals week and her stress levels are through the roof. Don’t throw her off.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk. A deep, hollow ache bloomed in my chest, expanding until my throat burned. Even when I brought up breaking up, Mike didn’t take it seriously for a single second. His entire world still revolved exclusively around Kendra. Before Kendra entered our lives, Mike and I had been inseparable childhood sweethearts. When we were kids, if anyone called me dumb, Mike would throw hands without a second thought. As we grew older, he would invent endless creative ways to help me study. When my parents went through a messy divorce and abandoned me, Mike emptied his savings and gave me all his tutoring earnings just so I could cover my high school tuition. But the moment Kendra appeared—a girl who seemed to need constant protection—I became the one who was expected to step aside. By now, Kendra was already calling out to him impatiently from down the street. Mike hurriedly wiped away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. “I have class right now. Go back to your room and cool down.” I had heard that phrase a thousand times. Every time I argued with him over Kendra, it always ended with him telling me to “cool down.” As if the problem was always my emotional instability. While he stood safely on the bank, watching the fire burn without ever acknowledging my pain. That evening, the only communication I received from Mike was a single text: “Don’t forget to take your pain meds.” When the message popped up, a throbbing pain was radiating through my right knee. It was an old injury from my years of rigorous dance training as a kid. In my past life, after graduation, the condition had deteriorated so severely that surgery became unavoidable. Yet right when I was preparing for the operation, a two-year research project that Mike and Kendra had poured everything into lost its funding, threatening total collapse. At the time, I worked daytime shifts at the research institute and taught private dance classes at night to scrape money together. But it was barely a drop in the bucket. Watching them face failure after failure, drowned in silent despair, I made the choice to pull my surgical savings out of the bank to plug their financial hole. Their experiment survived. It was the single biggest regret of my entire life. Six months after handing over my surgery fund, my knee gave out during a late-night commercial dance gig. I plunged off a one-meter stage. By the time I was rushed to the ER, the orthopedic surgeon stared at the scans and shook his head in deep disappointment. “The damage here is pressing directly on the main nerve root. If you had come six months ago, surgery could have saved it completely. Now? You’re going to walk with a permanent limp.” I remembered sitting on that stark hospital bed in stunned silence, the white walls blurring into jagged smears of light. I tried calling Mike and Kendra. Neither picked up. Finally, I called one of their lab colleagues. The guy sent back a short video. “Someone in the department is celebrating a birthday—we’re all out at a karaoke lounge.” In the video, Mike and Kendra were tucked into a cozy corner of the booth, sitting impossibly close. Surrounded by cheering friends, they were playing that party game where you pass a thin cracker lip-to-lip. The way they looked into each other’s eyes during that split second was so raw it looked like a real kiss. The flashing neon lights in the video had burned my eyes, and my chest had ached with a suffocating weight. It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Mike finally called back. He dismissed the entire thing with effortless detachment: “Your leg is crippled? It’s fine. It just means you won’t be dancing in public anymore anyway. Honestly, putting yourself on display like that wasn’t a great look to begin with.” He seemed to have completely forgotten “who” had paid for his research to survive. A cold compress pulled me back from the dark spiral of my memories. Without hesitation, I opened my phone and booked an appointment with an orthopedic specialist for tomorrow morning. At the hospital, the doctor reviewed my MRI scans with a serious expression. “You caught this early. There’s still time for surgical intervention, and it shouldn’t impact your ability to pursue dance long-term.” “However, you must avoid strenuous physical activity before the operation. If the nerve compression worsens, even surgery won’t guarantee a full recovery.” Since summer break was just around the corner, I let out a massive sigh of relief. When I returned to my dorm building, I ran straight into Kendra and Mike near the entrance. Mike noticed the thick medical envelope in my hand, his brow furrowing. “What’s that?” I brushed it off. “Just a routine checkup scan.” Mike nodded, asking no further questions. Because a tearful Kendra was far more deserving of his attention. “Chloe, why do you want to break up with Mike? Is it because of me?” “Mike and I are just friends! You’re the most important person in the world to me—how could you misinterpret things like this?” I looked at her quietly. I couldn’t help but remember how, in my past life after Mike died, Kendra couldn’t accept the reality and shifted the entire blame onto me. “If you hadn’t sent him all those needy texts the night before, he wouldn’t have been exhausted! He wouldn’t have had the accident!” Because of Kendra’s tearful accusations, the entire department turned their anger on me. Local news outlets even quoted her words in their coverage. I was cyberbullied so severely that I developed deep depression and nearly ended my own life. Looking at her weeping face now, I asked flatly, “Kendra, aren’t you in love with Mike?” Kendra’s pupils contracted. She stumbled over her words. “How could I steal your boyfriend? Besides, if we were going to date, we would have done it years ago! Why would he end up with you instead?” Mike looked at me with profound disappointment. “Chloe, you shouldn’t doubt Kendra. She cares about you more than anyone.” His tone carried an absolute, commanding authority. “Apologize to her.” I cast a cool glance at him. “Whether she cares about me, I don’t know. But you certainly care deeply about her.” Mike’s face darkened instantly. Kendra stopped her sobbing, stepping forward to shield Mike behind her. “How can you talk to Mike like that? Hasn’t he been good enough to you? Without him, you wouldn’t even have been able to afford college!” To defend Mike, Kendra didn’t hesitate to tear open my oldest, most painful scars just to sting me. I swallowed the sharp pain in my chest, walked around them, and kept going. Kendra tried to chase after me, but Mike pulled her back. “Forget it. She doesn’t appreciate your concern anyway—look at you, crying like a little mess.” I heard Kendra whimpering softly against his shoulder. Mike comforted her in a gentle, hushed tone. “She’s just throwing a petty tantrum. We’re not actually breaking up. We’ll both always be here with you.” I let out a bitter laugh. The moment I got back to my room, I pulled up the student portal and submitted my application for the international exchange program. My academic advisor called me in to double-check. “The exchange spots are only open for your current performing arts major. Are you sure you don’t want to finalize your transfer to geology before applying?” Thinking of Mike’s unwavering confidence, I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’m sure.” The next morning, Kendra sent a text: “Chloe, I was too hot-headed yesterday. Please don’t take it to heart.” “Mike said you’re in a funk, so let’s go hiking this weekend to clear your head! You love hiking, don’t you?” In the past, I had only lied about loving hiking because I wanted to spend time with them during their field outings. Just as I was about to type out a refusal, Mike called. His voice held a heavy, weary annoyance. “Just agree to go, Chloe. Otherwise, she’s going to keep coming to your dorm building to harass you.” “My leg is injured,” I said coldly. “I can’t hike.” Without waiting for his response, I ended the call. Yet when the weekend came, they were waiting right at the bottom of my building anyway. Mike’s tone left no room for debate. “It’s just a light trail, and there’s a cable car system near the peak. It won’t affect your leg.” The two of them essentially sandwiched me into the back seat of a charter van. There were other students in the vehicle—strangers from their department. Throughout the ride, the two of them chatted animatedly with the rest of the group, while I sat in the corner like an awkward outsider. When we arrived at the base of the trail, Mike naturally picked up my heavy backpack. “Hey, I want the exact same treatment!” Kendra pouted playfully, showing off her intimacy with Mike without a shred of restraint. Mike casually slung her bag over his other shoulder as well. It wasn’t until we began the ascent that I realized this wasn’t a recreational trip at all. It was another field survey for one of Kendra’s academic projects. I was merely an afterthought. Halfway up the trail, a sharp, throbbing ache began to radiate through my knee. “I’m not going any further,” I said, stopping in my tracks. Kendra turned around with a look of pure disappointment, said nothing, and kept climbing. Mike’s patience was clearly running thin. “Didn’t I already take your bag for you?” The other students bypassed me with visible disdain. “Complaining after a couple of miles? Why do beginners even bother coming on these trips?” I tossed my trekking poles onto the dirt path and turned to head back down. Mike stepped in front of me, annoyed. “Going down alone is dangerous. Just keep pushing upward—the cable car station is near the top.” We hiked for what felt like hours. The sky gradually darkened into a deep twilight, yet there was still no sign of the cable car station. My leg was trembling so badly I could barely keep my balance. “Where is the cable car?” This time, the entire group fell dead silent. Kendra’s voice quavered with panic. “We… we took the wrong fork.” I looked at Mike in utter shock. He pressed his lips into a tight line, saying nothing. Someone quickly dialed the mountain emergency rescue line. But because our exact location was uncertain, there was no telling how long it would take for help to arrive. As darkness swallowed the trail, fear began to spread through the group. I sank down onto a flat rock, my voice barely a whisper. “Mike… my leg hurts.” Before he could answer, a guy from their lab snapped aggressively, “Are you ever going to stop? If you’re injured, why did you come on a field survey in the first place? You just wanted easy extra credit by relying on Mike to carry you, right?” Others chimed in with cold side-eyes. “His actual girlfriend is sitting right here—how does she have the nerve?” Looking at Kendra’s guilty, averted eyes, the truth finally clicked. To the rest of the team, Mike and Kendra were the official couple. I was just an intrusive, shameless third wheel. Sweat poured down my face from the agonizing throbs in my knee. I curled up on the dirt, lacking even the strength to defend myself. Mike barked at the group, “Everyone shut up! Stop taking your frustration out on her!” He pulled out a emergency painkiller from his pack, handed it to me with water, and then crouched down in front of me. “I’ll carry you back down the path we came.” Suddenly, Kendra broke into frantic tears. “Mike… I’m scared of the dark.” Mike froze in place. “You have a high-powered flashlight, don’t you?” She tugged tightly at his jacket sleeve. “It doesn’t matter! I’m terrified without you!” Another student chimed in immediately. “Mike, you should take Kendra down first. She’s faint-hearted.” “Yeah, and Kendra’s safety is crucial for the department’s data.” In the pitch-black woods, every sound was amplified. I could hear my own racing heart, the quiet contempt in their voices—and the heavy pause before Mike stood back up. “Wait here for the rescue team, Chloe,” Mike said softly. “I’ll take Kendra down to the base and come right back for you.” I reached out with trembling fingers, clutching the hem of his jacket. “Don’t go, Mike. Please. I can’t wait out here.” With cruel precision, Mike peeled my fingers off his sleeve one by one. “Your leg isn’t that severe. The painkiller will kick in soon.” The rhythmic crunch of Mike’s boots carrying Kendra down the trail slowly faded into the dark distance. I sat on the cold ground, hollowed out. The mountain wind grew howling cold, stinging my tear-stained eyes. I don’t know how many hours passed. Just before unconsciousness claimed me, the flashlight beams of the rescue team cut through the trees. By the time Mike finally rushed into the regional hospital hours later, he was met by the uncomfortable, awkward stares of his lab mates. Above the double doors of the operating room, the bright red glow of the surgical sign made his scalp go entirely numb. “What was happening?” “Why was Chloe in surgery?” When I opened my eyes in the hospital room, a strange sense of rebirth washed over me. Then a splitting headache tore through my brain, reminding me that I had simply passed out from pain and exhaustion. It took a few agonizing seconds to regain sensation. The very first thing I did was reach down toward my leg. It was wrapped in thick, heavy layers of surgical gauze—just like after my fall off the stage in my past life. My heart slammed against my ribs. I opened my mouth to call out, but only a raspy, silent breath escaped my throat. “Was I really destined to end up a cripple all over again?” Despair settled over me like a suffocating blanket. Unable to accept it, I slammed my hand against the bed frame in frustration. The thud brought a rush of hurried footsteps outside. The door was shoved open with force. Mike stood at the threshold, his eyes wide with shock. “Chloe! You’re awake?” He scrambled to press the nurse call button, then poured a cup of water and held it to my dry lips. I grabbed his forearm tightly, my voice trembling. “Mike… my leg. How is my leg?” Mike’s face drained of all color. It took him several agonizing seconds to force the words out. “It… it was very critical at first. The surgery is over, but you’re still under strict observation.” His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “I’m sorry, Chloe.” A few minutes later, the lead surgeon walked in to inspect my vitals. “The operation went smoothly,” the doctor announced, checking my charts. “We managed to relieve the nerve compression just in time.” A massive weight lifted off my chest. “Thank God.” I hadn’t been dragged back into the abyss. However, the doctor tapped his clipboard with a stern expression. “You cannot ignore medical advice again. During the recovery window, you are strictly forbidden from engaging in any high-impact physical activity. If the nerve undergoes secondary trauma, the damage will be permanent.” Before I could respond, Mike—standing behind the doctor—clutched the metal footboard so hard his knuckles turned white. His face was ghastly pale. After the doctor left, Mike sat down by my bedside, staring blankly at my wrapped leg. After a long silence, his voice cracked with emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me it was already this serious?” The room was so quiet I could hear the faint strain in his breathing. My voice remained completely flat. “I did tell you.” “I told you I couldn’t hike. I told you I couldn’t walk anymore. I told you my leg hurt…” “Had I been unconscious so long that he had already forgotten?” “You should have told me the actual medical diagnosis!” he insisted, his tone defensive. I stared quietly at the plain white ceiling. In my mind’s eye, I saw his cold, indifferent face from my past life—the way he had mocked me when I told him the truth. I looked at him and asked softly, “Even if I had given you the exact diagnosis… would you really have stopped forcing me to climb that mountain?” “Of course I would have!” Mike blurted out. Then, just as quickly, his voice died in his throat. “No, you wouldn’t,” I finished the sentence for him. “You would have told me it wasn’t a big deal. You would have told me to compromise just one more time.” Mike went completely stiff. When our eyes met, a flick of deep, unsettling confusion passed through his gaze. Out of nowhere, I asked a quiet question. “Mike… what does ‘You are my Quaternary Ice Age’ mean?”
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