Every Lifetime After You

“Nicola”

Shera’s voice carried through the door, firm but warm, like it always did when she was trying not to sound worried.

I stared at my reflection and didn’t answer.

“Nicola, the guests will be arriving soon.”

As if that would make me move any faster.

There was a pause.

Then softer, closer to the door this time—

“Don’t make me come in there.”

I rolled my eyes.

She should know by now that after seven years, threats doesn't work on me.

Unfortunately, the maids did.

They door opened without my permission, and three of them slipped inside like they had legal ownership of my suffering.

I turned just in time to see the dress being carried in.

No.

Absolutely not.

“I’m not wearing that,” I said immediately.

Shera smiled like I hadn’t just spoken, standing behind, looking through the mirror while they change my clothes.

Layers and layers of pale fabric, stitched with details no one would notice in candlelight unless they planned to stare at my waist for an inappropriate amount of time.

“I said I’m not wearing it,” I repeated.

They ignored me.

Of course they did.

Hands reached for me—gentle, practiced, completely unwilling to take no for an answer.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered as they tightened something around my waist.

“Who decided this was necessary? I can breathe just fine without all of this.”

No one answered.

They never do when I ask the right questions.

I caught my reflection again as they lifted the gown over my shoulders, settling it into place like it belonged there.

It didn’t.

It never did.

I looked… different.

Not wrong. Just… contained.

Polished in a way that felt like a lie.

And the worst part?

I knew exactly why I am wearing it.

I exhaled slowly, letting my head tilt back as one of them fixed my hair into something far too structured for my liking.

If you’re wondering how I ended up here—

wearing a dress I hate, preparing for a gathering I have no interest in—

you’re asking the wrong question.

The better one would be:

Why did I stay?

…

Seven years ago, I didn’t even know what a dress was.

Seven years ago, I didn’t know what anything was.

Not this room. Not even my own name.

I didn’t have one.

Here’s the thing:

Human souls are meant to live three lifetimes.

Three.

That’s the arrangement.

Each soul is assigned a guardian angel to guide them through every life until the soul finally dissolves into stardust and returns to the universe properly.

Mine was Shera.

Well.

Not mine.

I was hers.

Important distinction.

And unfortunately, I got attached.

That was the beginning of every problem that came after.

I remember my fall clearly.

Not vaguely.

Not like a dream humans struggle to explain afterward.

Clearly.

There was a place guardian angels were never supposed to approach directly.

The Light.

Not sunlight.

Not fire.

Not anything humans have words for.

This Light doesn’t flicker.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even shine the way earthly things do.

It simply… existed.

Everywhere.

All at once.

And it spoke.

Not with a voice exactly.

More like something pressing into your thoughts until ignoring it becomes impossible.

You understand the consequence.

I did.

Or at least, I thought I did.

I remember agreeing.

Very confidently, I might add.

Which, looking back, was a mistake.

Because the explanation was… incomplete.

Or maybe I just didn’t listen properly.

Both are possible.

You will lose your wings.

Yes, that part I understood.

They were… important, my wings were enormous.

A little dramatic if you ask me.

Guardian angels like pretending size represents authority.

It doesn’t.

Mostly it just makes doorways inconvenient.

Still—I liked them.

You will be bound.

That one was less clear.

Bound to what? To where? For how long?

I didn’t ask.

Again—mistake.

You cannot reveal the heavens

You will not return.

That should have been the moment I reconsidered.

It wasn’t.

I was curious.

That tends to override better judgment.

So I stepped forward.

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

Just a very strong belief that I knew what I was doing.

That I will finally be with my human.

But no one mentioned the rest.

No one mentioned the weight.

The way a body feels when it’s suddenly… finite.

The way breathing becomes something you have to keep doing manually or everything stops—

which, frankly, feels like a design flaw.

No one mentioned pain.

Or silence.

Or the very specific humiliation of arriving on earth in the body of a girl with absolutely no clothing and no ability to explain yourself.

That part should have been included in the contract signing.

But it wasn’t.

Or I ignored it.

Again—both are possible.

I remember the way my wings felt—and then didn’t.

I remember the exact moment they were gone.

Not fading.

Not disappearing.

Gone.

Like they had never been there at all.

It was… unsettling.

I didn’t like it.

I still don’t.

I remember the pain.

Of course I do.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t merciful.

It felt like something inside me was being pulled apart and forced into something smaller, heavier, breakable.

Human.

I remember hitting the ground.

Hard.

I also remember being deeply offended by gravity almost immediately. Nobody warns you about gravity either. You simply discover it aggressively.

I couldn’t stand properly at first. My body refused to cooperate.

Everything hurt.

Everything felt wrong.

My lungs burned.

My heartbeat made me panic.

And still—I wasn’t scared.

That’s the strange part, isn’t it?

Most would be.

Falling from something endless into something so… limited.

But I wasn’t. If anything, I was curious. Excited, even.

I think I tried laughing at one point, it sounded terrible. Human voices require practice apparently.

I didn’t know how to move without thinking about it first.

Didn’t know how to speak.

Didn’t understand why my chest kept tightening and releasing like my body was desperately trying to convince itself to remain alive.

I just existed there for a while.

On the ground.

Bare.

A fallen thing with no wings and no plan.

---

The room had finally gone quiet.

The maids had left not long ago—though not before whispering just outside the door, voices hushed but not nearly enough.

“They say she appeared out of nowhere.”

“Madam never explains—”

Their footsteps faded after that.

I let them talk.

They usually do.

I’ve learned not to interrupt.

The door opened again, softer this time.

Shera stepped in.

Alone.

No maids. No adjustments. No careful hands trying to fix what didn’t need fixing.

Just her.

She paused for a moment when she saw me, like she always did—as if she needed a second to take it in.

I stayed still, letting her.

This part never bother me.

She walked closer, slower than before, her gaze steady but not overwhelming.

There is something different in it tonight.

Not uncertainty.

Not even worry.

Something… full.

“You’re ready,” she said quietly.

I glanced down at the dress, then back at her.

“I’ve been informed of that repeatedly,” I replied. “I’m beginning to suspect it’s a threat.”

Her lips curved, just slightly.

“It is,” she said. Then, after a pause, softer—“But this time, I believe it.”

That made me look at her properly.

Shera isn’t a woman who says things without meaning them.

Which means—this matters.

“I could have continued avoiding this,” I said. “I am becoming remarkably skilled at it.”

“I know,” she answered gently.

No disappointment.

No pressure.

Just acknowledgment.

She stepped closer, close enough now that I could see the fine lines at the corner of her eyes, the way they deepened when she smiled.

She reached out—hesitated for the briefest moment—then rested her hand lightly against my arm.

Warm.

Careful.

Like she is still asking for permission, even after all this time.

“I want to thank you,” she said.

“For what?” I asked.

Her fingers tightened slightly, not enough to hurt.

Just enough to be certain.

“For allowing this,” she said. “For allowing yourself to be seen.”

I frowned, just a little.

“That seems like a strange thing to be grateful for.”

“It isn’t,” she replied. “Not to me.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because I understood what she meant.

Even if she didn’t say it.

For seven years, I had stayed at the edges.

Observed. Learned. Played the part when necessary.

But never fully stepped into it.

Never let the world look too closely.

And Shera? she had never forced me to.

Not once.

“I didn’t do it for them,” I said after a moment.

“I know.”

“I did it for you.”

Her expression softened in a way I hadn’t seen before.

Not surprise.

Something deeper.

Something quieter.

“I know that too,” she said.

She always understood the important parts. Just not the impossible ones. Not the part where I had watched her before this life.

And before that one.

Different homes.

Different names.

Same loneliness.

Always the same empty space beside her.

A daughter-shaped absence following her through lifetimes like the universe itself had made a mistake and refused to correct it.

I got tired of watching it eventually.

So I traded my wings for human problems instead. In hindsight, deeply questionable decision-making.

But still—worth it.

She didn’t need to know any of that.

She just needed this.

A daughter.

Someone loud in the hallways.

Someone who stayed.

Her hand brushed lightly against my sleeve, smoothing the fabric even though it was already perfectly fine.

“You’ve made me very happy,” she said quietly.

There it was.

Simple.

Human.

Dangerously sincere.

I tilted my head slightly.

“That was the intention,” I admitted.

Shera laughed softly under her breath.

“I suspected as much.”

Silence settled between us.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

I watched her carefully the way I always did. Noticing things others ignored.

The tiredness she carried in her shoulders. The loneliness she hid elegantly. The way she looks at me—like I had always belonged there.

I never corrected her.

Instead, I reached for her hand this time. Not because she needed comfort, but because I wanted to touch something warm.

Her fingers curled around mine immediately.

Instinctive.

Trusting.

“I’ll stay close,” I said quietly.

A simple promise.

But I meant it in ways she could never fully understand.

Shera squeezed my hand lightly before giving me a look that suddenly felt far too amused.

“And Nicola?”

I looked back at her.

“Try not to alarm anyone tonight.”

I considered that carefully.

“No promises.”

She sighed immediately like she had expected exactly that answer.

The smile never left her face.

And somehow—that made the room feel warmer than the fireplace ever could.