Ghosts Of Girlfriends — Past

They flickered through the years like a glitching film reel. He saw the faces he’d blurred out: the intern who lost her job because he forgot to tell her the meeting time; the artist who stopped painting after he told her her dreams were 'unrealistic' over a breakup text.

He froze. Standing beside him was Allison Vandermeersh. She looked exactly as she did in 1989—frizzy hair, braces, and a "Save the Whales" t-shirt. She was his first heartbreak, or rather, the first heart he broke.

"She’s the only reason you’re here tonight," Allison said, her voice softening. "She’s the only one who didn't let you break her, which is why you’re so terrified of her." "I'm not terrified," Connor lied, his voice cracking. Ghosts of Girlfriends Past

"I’m the Ghost of Girlfriends Past, you idiot," she snapped, grabbing a handful of his expensive nuts. "And we’re going on a tour. Buckle up, because your memory is a lot more edited than the reality."

"Allison?" he croaked. "You’re... you’re supposed to be in Duluth. And forty." They flickered through the years like a glitching film reel

The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and the kind of forced cheer that only exists at high-society weddings. Connor Mead, a man who treated hearts like disposable cameras—clicking once and moving on—stood by the bar, nursing a scotch. He wasn’t here for the romance; he was here because his brother, Paul, was the only person left who still believed Connor had a soul.

He put down the glass, smoothed his tuxedo, and started walking toward the one woman who knew exactly who he was—and was still waiting to see if he’d finally grow up. Standing beside him was Allison Vandermeersh

With a snap of her fingers, the ballroom dissolved. Suddenly, they were standing in a cramped dorm room. A younger Connor was packing a bag while a girl sat on the bed, crying silently.