My name’s Briar, I’m 28, and this happened on Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend, Jace, brings me to a candlelit restaurant filled with couples and roses. Halfway through the meal, he sets down his fork and says, “Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.” I just stare. “Are you serious?” He nods, calm, like he’s ordering dessert. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.” FOUR YEARS. Reduced to “not excited.” I didn’t cry, not there. I grab my coat and step out into the freezing air. Outside feels like a sick joke — hearts in every window, couples everywhere. I keep walking because I can’t go home yet. Then a terrible wheezing reaches me.
A man is slumped by a dumpster in an alley. At first, I assume he’s sleeping, then he convulses. Everyone else just… stands there. A woman covers her nose. “OH MY GOD, HE SMELLS.” A guy in a blazer mutters, “DON’T TOUCH HIM. HE PROBABLY HAS SOMETHING.”
And something in me **SNAPS**. “CALL 911!” I scream. Nobody moves. I scream again, and finally, a teenager dials. I drop to my knees. No breathing. Weak pulse. Lips turning blue.
So I start CPR. Hard. Fast. Counting out loud. My arms burn. Everyone just watches. *No one helps.* Then sirens. Paramedics take over. As they load him in, his eyes flutter open.
He looks right at me and rasps, “Marker.” “What?” I say. He grabs my wrist. “Your name. Write it. Please… so I don’t forget.” Someone shoves a marker into my hand. I’m shaking. I write: BRIAR. Then the ambulance doors shut.
I go home shaking. I cry in the shower until my throat hurts. The next morning, my doorbell rings. I open the door in sweatpants. And there’s a limo parked in front of my house with my name on it.
The limo door opens, and the man from the alley steps out. Except now HE’S CLEAN, IN AN EXPENSIVE COAT, HAIR STYLED.
“You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, aren’t you?” he asks as he steps in. ⬇️⬇️⬇️
