Luke was always good to me, even back at the orphanage.

After he got adopted, he remained the same.

He'd sneak his family's pork ribs for me, swipe his dad's cash to buy me barrettes.

When we grew up, he got his eardrum busted up for me, losing his chance at college.

But he used his protection racket money to fund my music school, buy me the prettiest dresses.

From our first time at eighteen until graduation, we were inseparable.

Then, after I won first prize in my competition and rushed to celebrate with him,

I saw him on the street, making out like crazy with some knockout.

I ran over, slapped him.

He sneered, "My dad says you're just a stage whore, a cheapskate. You didn't sleep with the judges, you couldn't have won."

"Whatever, I'm bored anyway. Sarah, we're done."

I tossed my trophy at him.

"Yeah, me too. Have fun with your new toys every day."

That day, I walked for hours in the pouring rain, the icy water mixing with my tears, soaking me to the bone.

A car hit me; my knee bled, staining my dress crimson.

The driver frantically asked if I was okay.

All I could think was, this dress is ruined, just like my love for Luke. It's stained, irredeemable, never going back to how it was.

I haven't worn a dress since.

Five years later, it's the anniversary of our breakup.

Torrential rain again. Every year on this day, it pours.

Maybe the rain in my heart never stopped.

Lost in thought, my car lurched forward.

I jolted back to reality. Red light, I rear-ended someone.

I walked over, umbrella in hand, and tapped on the driver's window.

He didn't get out, just rolled the window down. Seeing who it was, my heart skipped a beat.

Luke, 28 years old.

I’d imagined him countless ways: a hoodlum, slicked-back hair, gold chains; or a regular Joe, plain clothes, a total office drone.

Never this: a sharp suit, gold-rimmed glasses, a high-roller.

His car—a million-dollar-plus ride.

His eyes flashed, a brief spark, then icy indifference.

My throat tightened, tears welling, but I kept it cool. "Long time no see."

Our reunion wasn’t like I’d imagined. He coldly said, "No need for compensation."

Then he sped off, splashing me.

Back in my car, I sobbed.

I slapped myself, repeatedly.

I hated myself, for still harboring unrealistic hope.

They say former lovers can't handle seeing each other again. No matter the time, there's an urge to hug, to have it all again.

That only applies to me, apparently. He’s moved on.

Pulling over, I called, "Amy, I need a drink."

That night, drunk, I raged in Amy’s arms.

“I’m not ugly, I have a great body, I can sing, we had twenty-something years together, why would he just dump me?”

“Amy, I don’t get it! Tell me! Can someone really stop loving you that fast? Yesterday, he was holding me, wishing me luck, and then, poof, no love?”

My tears and snot were all over Amy.

He sighed, hugging me. "Sweetheart, not every question has an answer."

"I’ll help you one last time. If he’s still cold, I won't let anyone hurt you again."

The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache, in my bed, makeup removed.

Amy did it. We met at that singing competition after college.

He was fresh-faced then, a crew cut, black-framed glasses, playing his original song, making it to the finals.

A male judge, jealous of his talent, gave him a low score, second place.

I thought he'd resent my win, but after the show, he hugged me, genuinely happy.

Ironically, he was the one who hit me in the rain that day.

We became friends, he comforted me, carried me home countless times.

Now, he’s a mega-star, and I’m a behind-the-scenes sound engineer.

I picked up a glass of water, a note underneath.

Luke’s phone number.

A message: Last chance.

My hand trembled. That unfamiliar number, tears falling again.

He'd changed numbers ages ago.

I opened my social media, years of posts and photos, visible only to him. It was ridiculous.