Out of Sight, Out of Mind

When the ninety-ninth specialist firmly told me I could never conceive, my husband did not hesitate to abandon me, storming off in anger.

I chased him to his office, only to hear rhythmic and intimate sounds from inside.

“Emily, have my child. Be my wife, will you?”

The hand I had raised to knock fell limply at my side, powerless, as his words echoed in my ears.

When I returned home, I took down all our wedding photos and noticed my husband’s long-unused diary.

Filled with anger and frustration, I picked up a pen and scrawled five furious words across the page.

[Ryan Lane, we are done!]

A sentence appeared below my writing out of nowhere. [Who are you? Why are you scribbling in my diary?]

Overcome with emotion, I forgot my fear and replied: [I’m Anna White. It’s because you don’t love her.]

…

One by one, the words jumped off the page: [You’re Anna White?]

[No way. Who are you really?]

[How can you appear in my diary?]

Three questions in rapid succession.

I was so frightened that I instantly threw the diary away when I saw it.

It took me two full minutes to calm down before I mustered the courage to pick it up again.

Staring at the words, I replied hesitantly: [This is your diary? Who are you?]

[I’m Ryan.]

The words were written neatly, confidently, and with an air of authority.

My hand trembled as I held the pen.

Was the person on the other side the seventeen-year-old Ryan?

Before I could process this, more words appeared hastily:

[You still haven’t answered me. Who exactly are you?]

I quickly responded to his words: [I’m Anna White, thirty years old.]

[The person you’ll become will hurt me. So, the seventeen-year-old Ryan, please stay away from me.]

The diary fell silent.

Ten seconds later, the pen carved sharply into the paper: [That’s impossible!]

I could almost see the angry and stubborn face of seventeen-year-old Ryan in the diary, passionately defending a promise he would inevitably break in the future.

Back then, his love was pure and unwavering. He could never have imagined that the man he would become at thirty would be so cruel and heartless.

I was about to reply when the door suddenly burst open. A gust of wind flipped the diary’s pages.

I quietly closed it as the thirty-year-old Ryan strode in, rummaging through drawers.

Previously, he would hug me from behind whenever he came home, nuzzling my hair like a clingy cat.

Every time I pushed him away, trying to escape the tickling, he would lean in closer, whispering sweet words that made me blush.

His gaze would not linger on me for more than half a second now.

After ten minutes of searching in vain, his irritation boiled over, and he finally turned to me.

“Have you seen the Lane family’s heirloom?”

“Emily is carrying my son, and the heirloom is always passed to the eldest son.”

My chest tightened painfully.

On our wedding day, he had personally handed me the heirloom in front of all the guests, asking me to keep it safe.

His younger brother protested angrily, “Ryan, the heirloom is meant to be passed down! Everyone knows she can’t have children, so how is she qualified to keep it?”

Back then, I was injured in an accident thirteen years ago and rendered infertile.

No one had ever dared to mention it in front of Ryan. However, his brother had cruelly brought it up in front of everyone on our wedding day.

The atmosphere became painfully awkward.

All eyes were on me.

Ryan had gripped my hand tightly, slapped his brother across the face, and declared, “Even if Anna can’t have children, she’s still the only one worthy of keeping the heirloom.”

I felt fortunate to have married him at that moment.

I had guarded it diligently for five years.

Now, he was breaking his promise.

I opened a drawer before me, pulled out the jade pendant engraved with the word “peace,” and handed it to him.

Ryan snatched it, and a smile spread across his face. “Finally! If Emily wears this, she and the child will be safe.”

Only then did he bother to look at me; his gaze was ice-cold and indifferent.

“Heirlooms are meant to be passed down. Now that Emily is carrying my child, it’s only right she gets it.”

“I have to go check on her. I’ll come back to celebrate our anniversary with you after I’m done.”

As he reached the door, he paused momentarily, glancing back at me with a condescending smile.

“Don’t worry. Even if Emily has a son, you’ll still be Mrs. Lane.”

A slap followed by a token of pity. It had become his go-to tactic in recent years.

As I watched him leave with a smile on his face, I let out a bitter laugh.

He called me his wife, yet he had a child with another woman.

I opened the diary again and saw a new line of text:

[I missed my chance to take the spot behind her because you took too long to reply.]

I quickly picked up our old graduation photo. I was stunned to discover that the seventeen-year-old Ryan’s position in the picture had changed.

I looked at the diary. My breath caught in my throat, and my fingers trembled.

Could Ryan, on the other end of the diary, change the future?