My Future Ex Warned Me First

The night before Viola proposed to me, my mother was diagnosed with a malignant tumor.

Combining every cent I had in the world, I was still thirty thousand dollars short of the deposit required for her emergency surgery.

I called Viola, sobbing, begging to borrow the money.

But the voice that answered her phone belonged to her—three years in the future. "Viola... my mom gets better, right?" I whispered into the receiver, my hand trembling against my chest. "You’ll help me save her.

You always do, right?" Silence stretched over the line, heavy and cold, for three agonizing seconds.

When she finally spoke, her voice was stripped of any warmth I had ever known. "Your mother is dead," the future Viola said. "You asked me for thirty grand, and I turned you down.

But the very next day, I bought your best friend a thirtythousanddollar Cartier bracelet." My fingers tightened around the phone, my other hand squeezing the biopsy report so hard the paper crinkled in my grip.

She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "Honestly, Tyler had been throwing himself at me for months. I only held back because of you.

But I didn't realize how cheap you were beneath it all.

Begging me for thirty thousand dollars like a common parasite." The next evening, Viola got down on one knee in front of me, holding out a diamond ring, asking me to marry her.

In that moment, all I could think about was the last thing her future self had said before she hung up the phone the night before: "If things go as planned, tomorrow night will be our first time together—Tyler and me." "Of course, you can choose not to ask me for the money.

But without my charity, your mother will only die faster." "Your move, Jesse. You decide." … "Will you make me the happiest woman alive?

Will you marry me, Jesse?" The moment the words left her lips, both of our phones chimed. Mine was a text notification from the hospital, a stark demand for the outstanding balance.

Hers was a rapid, rhythmic series of text alerts, vibrating incessantly against her thigh. "Who is texting you?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Let me see." I saw the brief, guilty flicker in her eyes before she quickly turned her body, shielding the screen.

But I was fast enough. I caught the name and the words glowing on the glass. It was Tyler. My best friend since childhood. "I know you’re getting married tomorrow.

Just give me tonight. Please." The world tilted. My foot caught on the edge of the brick pathway, and I fell hard onto the gravel.

The sharp stones sliced open my palms, hot blood welling up instantly. Behind Viola, the elaborate firework display she had commissioned began to detonate against the dark sky.

A brilliant, colorful explosion. A magnificent, cruel joke. I let out a broken, breathless laugh, tearing off the formal tie around my neck.

The blood from my hands smeared across the dark silk, soaking the fabric. Tears finally spilled over, blurring the face of the woman I had loved for five years.

When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. "Forget it, Viola. I won’t marry you." I pushed myself up and ran in the opposite direction.

She made a move to follow, but her ringing phone anchored her to the spot. Through the freezing wind, her voice drifted over to me. She didn’t sound devastated.

If anything, there was a strange, unsettling note of relief in her tone: "Yeah. I just proposed. He said no." "Hey, stop crying.

I’m on my way to you now…" …… At the hospital, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the ICU window, looking at my mother.

The cancer had wasted her away in a matter of hours. It is true what they say—sickness arrives like a landslide.

Only yesterday she had collapsed, and today I was holding a terminal diagnosis. "Mr.

Fletcher," the billing administrator said, tapping a pen on the counter. "The deposit you made won’t cover her next round of intensive care.

You need to clear the balance downstairs." I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone to check my banking app. My total net worth: $4,053.62.

Not even a fraction of the tens of thousands needed for her treatment. Originally, I had more than enough saved.

But two weeks ago, Tyler had come to me, begging for a loan to jumpstart his "business venture." I remembered how he had clutched my hand, tears streaming down his face. "Jesse, I don’t have a wealthy girlfriend like you do.

If you don't help me, my family is going to force me to marry some older woman back home just to pay off their debts." I hadn’t hesitated.

I gave him every cent of my savings, not even asking for a promissory note. I had no idea that along with my life savings, he was also taking my future wife.

I took a deep breath and called Tyler. The word "repay" had barely left my mouth when a familiar, sleepy voice echoed from his end of the line. "I’m out of the shower.

Who's calling?" "Wrong number…" Tyler cut himself off. There was a pause, and then I heard him let out a soft, mocking chuckle.

He raised his voice, clearly intending for her—and me—to hear. "Viola, darling, did Jesse turn down your proposal because you didn’t offer him a big enough trust fund?

He always did say he'd marry anyone who paid off his debts." I had never said anything of the sort. But on the other end, Viola said nothing. No denial. No defense.

Soon, the sickeningly intimate sound of rustling sheets and soft murmurs filled the receiver. This was it. The first time the future Viola had warned me about.

The call ended with a sharp click. I tried calling back, desperate, but it went straight to voicemail.

I slid down the hospital wall, burying my face in my hands as the tears finally broke through.

The sheer, suffocating weight of it all pressed down on my chest, sending a violent wave of nausea through my stomach.

I dragged myself to the nearest trash can and retched until there was nothing left.

For the first twentyfive years of my life, my world had revolved around three people: my mother, Tyler, and Viola.

I never could have imagined that in a single night, I would lose all of them.

Desperate, I did something I had never done before—I began calling every acquaintance, distant relative, and old classmate in my contacts, begging for a loan.

The responses fell into three categories: a polite "I don't have it," an awkward excuse, or a pitiful hundreddollar transfer to quiet their own consciences.

To make up the difference, I took on three separate temp jobs, working myself to the bone.

Aside from the hours I spent sleeping or sitting by my mother's bedside, I didn’t allow myself a single moment of rest. During this time, Viola sent me one text message.

Just three words: "Don’t regret this." Viola would probably never understand why I had suddenly become a different person.

Just as I still couldn't comprehend how five years of love could be so easily poisoned by a third party.

It was her future self who reached out to me more often, her texts appearing on my screen like ghosts: "You don’t have to push yourself like this." "Even if you work yourself to death, you can't save her.

What's the point?" When I saw those messages, I was standing under a brutal ninetydegree sun, handing out flyers for fifteen dollars an hour.

I didn’t have the breath or the energy to reply.

That evening, a coordinator from my staffing agency texted asking if I could cover a VIP shift at an upscale lounge downtown. "The tips alone are more than we make in a month," she urged. "If my kid weren't sick, I’d never give this up." I couldn’t afford to say no.

But I never expected that when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private suite, I would see Viola again.

She was sitting at the center of the plush leather booth, her eyes locking onto mine through the dim, smoky light.

Curled up tightly against her side was Tyler, looking smug and radiant. One of her wealthy friends sneered, looking me up and down. "Well, look who it is.

Viola, isn't this the golddigging ex who wouldn't marry you without a massive payout? Working as a barback now? What's the play, Jesse?

Looking for a new sugar mommy?" The room erupted into laughter. Tyler’s laugh was the loudest.

Clearly, he had spent the last few weeks painting me as a villain to her social circle. Now that he had successfully climbed into her bed, he didn't need to pretend anymore.

He leaned his head on Viola’s shoulder, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Viola, Jesse seems really desperate for cash lately. He’s been hitting up all our mutual friends for loans.

Shouldn’t we do something to help him out?" Viola’s expression remained unreadable. After a long, tense silence, a cold smile played on her lips. "Sure," she said.

She tapped the toe of her designer heel against the row of expensive, highproof whiskey bottles lined up on the low table. "A thousand dollars a shot.

You game?" She knew I was severely allergic to alcohol. She was doing this purely to humiliate me, to watch me crawl.

But what she didn’t expect was that under the mocking stares of the entire room, I didn’t hesitate for a single second.

I reached down, grabbed a bottle of neat whiskey, tilted my head back, and began to drink.

The burning liquid scorched my throat, sending an immediate, violent spasm through my stomach.

I dug my fingernails into my palms, drawing blood, forcing myself to swallow, fighting the urge to vomit.

By the time Viola snapped out of her daze and ripped the bottle from my hands, more than half of it was gone. "Jesse, are you fucking insane?!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Why do you need money this badly?!" Under the sudden rush of alcohol, my eyes stung with tears.

For a split second, I wanted to tell her how exhausted I was. How scared I was. How desperately I wanted my mother to live.

But the future Viola had already proved to me that even if I told her the truth now, nothing would change.

I wiped the wetness from my chin and held up my phone, showing her my digital payment code.

My voice was flat, empty of emotion. "What I drank... that should be at least twelve grand, right?" She cursed under her breath, her fingers trembling as she scanned the code and transferred the money.

Then, she pointed at the door. "Get out." The moment I stumbled out of the suite, my legs gave way. I collapsed against the hallway wall, sliding down to the carpeted floor.

Looking at the notification of the twelvethousanddollar transfer, I let out a jagged laugh. But the laughter quickly turned into tears.

With this money, combined with what I had saved and borrowed, I finally had enough for my mother's surgery deposit. But right then, my phone rang.

The screen flashed with the hospital’s number, shattering my fragile hope. "Mr. Fletcher, your mother’s condition has suddenly deteriorated!" the nurse gasped. "It’s an emergency.

You need to get here immediately!" I don’t know how many times I tripped and fell on the dark streets.

By the time I burst through the hospital doors, my knees were torn and bleeding, and I had lost one of my shoes. But I was still too late. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

All that was waiting for me was a cold sheet and a death certificate. I threw myself over her cooling body, sobbing until my chest felt like it would split open. "Mom... please.

Don’t leave me alone. Take me with you... please, mom..." Even the ICU nurses, who saw death every day, turned away to wipe their eyes. "Mr.

Fletcher, I’m so sorry," one of them whispered, handing me a tissue. There was an old superstition in my family that you must never let your tears fall on the face of the deceased.

If you did, their soul wouldn’t find peace, and they might take the person they loved most along with them.

In that dark room, I wished with everything in me that the superstition was true. My mother was my only family, my entire world.

With her gone, what was the point of drawing another breath? My phone buzzed.

It was a call from the future Viola. "Jesse, your mother..." "Why?！" I screamed into the receiver, not letting her finish.

The dam broke, and every ounce of pain, betrayal, and exhaustion poured out of me. "Why, Viola?

Tell me why!" "Why is it that no matter what I do, I can’t save her?!" "Why did you and Tyler betray me when I did nothing wrong?!" "Why did the woman I loved for five years end up in bed with my best friend?!" "Tell me why!

Just tell me!" There was a dead, suffocating silence on the other end. And then, a sound I hadn't expected: a quiet, muffled sob.

After a long pause, she whispered, "I’m sorry." The anger drained out of me, leaving me entirely hollow. I slid down the wall, sitting flat on the cold hospital floor.

A question slipped past my lips: "Viola... do you regret it now?" The future Viola didn’t answer.

Instead, she said something strange, her voice sharp with sudden panic: "Jesse, don’t look out the window." But she was too late.

As soon as the words left her mouth, a massive firework detonated in the night sky outside the hospital window.

One after another, brilliant bursts of light illuminated the dark room like artificial daylight. Two young nurses walked past the door, their voices drifting in: "Oh, look!

That’s the display Ms. Clifford ordered for her new boyfriend. It’s supposed to go on all night." "Must be nice.

I heard her exboyfriend refused to marry her because she wouldn’t pay off his debts. What a leech. Glad she found someone better." Right. I had almost forgotten.

Today was Tyler's birthday. I opened my social media. My feed was flooded with pictures of Tyler wrapped in Viola's arms, surrounded by a mountain of designer gift boxes.

His caption read: "I asked for money, love, and the world. She gave it all to me with a smile, and called me cute for asking." I stared at the screen, my face completely blank.

I liked the post, and then I blocked him. A second later, my phone rang. It was the presentday Viola. "Jesse, are you out of your mind? Today is Tyler’s birthday!

Why did you block him?!" she demanded. "He’s literally crying his eyes out right now.

You need to apologize to him immediately!" I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden, blinding pain seized my chest. A metallic taste flooded my mouth.

The world spun, blackness encroached on my vision, and I collapsed backward into the dark. When I opened my eyes, a doctor was standing over my bed, his expression grim. "Mr.

Fletcher, we got your lab results back. It’s not good." "Severe physical exhaustion combined with extreme psychological trauma has triggered acute myocardial damage.

Your heart is failing." I held the paper, staring at the diagnosis code for a long time.

Then, I dialed the future Viola’s number. "Am I... going to die?" The silence stretched again, but this time, her choked sobs were loud and undisguised. "I’m so sorry, Jesse...

I’m so sorry..." So, even my own life was running out. There was a strange comfort in that. Her voice turned desperate, begging: "Please, start the treatment now.

Don’t push yourself anymore... do it for me, please?" I hung up. I pressed my hand against my aching chest.

Even if she hadn’t told me, I had no intention of fighting. "I’m sorry, Mom," I whispered to the empty room. "I’ll be with you soon." If my mother’s death was a fixed point, and nothing I did could alter it, then why keep fighting?

I might as well surrender now and spare myself the agony. Thirty minutes later, I walked out to the hallway, rejecting every medical intervention the hospital offered.

But physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.

I dragged my heavy limbs to the administrative office, finalized my mother’s death certificate, signed the cremation authorization, and sat on a wooden bench outside the crematorium.

I watched the thin spiral of gray smoke rise from the chimney, dissolving into the white clouds. I reached out, trying to catch it, but my fingers closed on empty air.

In the end, I decided to take her ashes back to our old apartment. She would be safe there, with me.

But as I walked up the steps holding the urn, I found Viola and Tyler waiting at my door. "Where the hell have you been?!" Viola snapped. "I told you to apologize to Tyler.

Did you not hear me?!" I didn’t even look at her. I lowered my head and tried to brush past them, but Viola grabbed my arm.

Her eyes swept over my pale, sunken face, and she froze for a fraction of a second. "Why do you look like this?" I winced, trying to pull away.

In the confusion, Tyler suddenly reached out and snatched the ceramic urn from my arms. "Jesse, what’s this?

What are you hiding?" "Give it back!" I lunged at him like a wild animal. It all happened in a blur—Tyler shrieked, ducking behind Viola, and let go of the urn.

It shattered against the concrete floor. A cloud of fine, gray dust rose into the air. Without thinking, I swung my arm and slapped Tyler hard across the face.

In the next second, Viola lunged forward, shoving me hard. I fell backward onto the concrete. "What is wrong with you?! Over a stupid vase?!" she yelled.

The sharp ceramic shards sliced deep into my palms, but I felt nothing. I crawled forward on my knees, desperately scraping my mother’s ashes back together with my bare hands.

I knelt there in the quiet, scraping up the dust, watching my own blood stain the gray remains of the only person who had ever truly loved me.

I didn't even hear the front door click shut when they left. That night, clutching a framed photo of my mother, I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills I had bought on the way home.

As my eyelids grew heavy, I heard the faint chime of the wind chimes on the balcony. With the last of my strength, I turned my head and saw a figure standing in the doorway... Mom.

My phone lay on the mattress, the screen glowing with my last text to the future Viola: "Thank you for telling me the truth. It’s finally over." …… At 1:00 AM, Viola’s phone rang.

It was the hospital. "Hello, is this the emergency contact for Jesse Fletcher? He’s just been admitted for an intentional overdose of sleeping pills.

We are running his stomach now." Viola didn’t remember how she got to the hospital. Her mind was a complete blank as she ran red lights across the city.

It wasn’t until she saw Jesse’s name on the critical care sheet that her denial shattered.

Just then, Jesse’s phone, which she had scooped up from his apartment floor, began to ring. She answered it mechanically.

But she never expected the voice on the other end to be her own. Only, it sounded years older, raspy, and completely broken.