I Traveled Back Ten Years, Only to Witness His Love for Another Chapter 10

I Traveled Back Ten Years, Only to Witness His Love for Another Chapter 10

I didn’t go back to my parents’.

Leo had brokered this marriage—he wouldn’t want it to fail.

A fallout would hurt both families’ business, so he’d try to change my mind.

I really didn’t want to waste my breath on Leo.

I retreated to my own place to sort through my feelings.

The rift between Ethan and me had happened too suddenly.

My social media blew up with questions—even Ethan’s friends.

I sent them the recording from outside the private room.

The silence was deafening.

Leo texted: [You’re an adult. Take responsibility for your actions.]

I replied: [Don’t give me that sanctimonious crap! You need to take responsibility for your own actions too!]

Ethan kept coming—property, stocks, cars.

Every gesture said regret, every word said love.

He blocked my driveway, knelt, confessed:

“I was wrong. I’m sorry. I used to love Lily—but after three years with you, how could I not have felt something? The pages I tore from my diary were about my feelings for you—I just didn’t want to admit it. I thought tearing them out would fix me. But once you love someone,

—

you can’t undo it. And that night I said what I said because I was afraid of being seen as weak. I was wrong. I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Ethan was a liar.

I couldn’t verify the torn pages, and I didn’t want to try.

“You owe me these,” I said, and I took the gifts. Then I told him to leave.

He came back, bringing a page torn and taped.

His eyes were bright. “I found it!”

I recognized it—from his diary, from our first anniversary last month.

It said:

[I never thought I could survive a year of marriage without you. But at day 365, I realized I might be falling for Rachel.]

“Liking” was crossed out, over and over, until it became:

[I can’t figure out my heart anymore. I should love you. But I think I love Rachel.]

Too much tape—so much that I almost couldn’t bring myself to rip it up and throw it in his face.

But I did anyway.

Instead, I crumpled it and tossed it in the trash.

“This doesn’t move me, Ethan. It just makes me angrier. You’ve always been an idiot.”

—

He didn’t argue—he just nodded.

“I know. But I can’t imagine life without you.”

There was no point in saying more.

I had security remove him.

He protested: “I’m her husband! You can’t do this!”

I explained: “We’re filing for divorce.”

Hearing that, security wasted no time.

He looked lost as he was forced out—just like eighteen-year-old him.

Would twenty-eight-year-old Ethan remember any of that? That memory, which held all my grievances?

Never mind. I didn’t want to know.