She told me she’d found it by accident. Read enough to realize she was never the future—just an escape. When he got sick, she left. She took the journal with her, planning to destroy it. But after he died, guilt—or truth—won.
Later, his lawyer called. Everything—savings, property, accounts—had been left to me. He had insisted on it. Said I was the only one who deserved it.
I would have traded it all for those four lost months.
They still feel like a shadow on a love that never truly ended. A scar where time was wasted proving something we both already knew.
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