Underneath was scrawled, “Always stressed. Still alive. Impressive.”
Another showed him near the gate, coffee cup clutched like a lifeline, dark circles faint but unmistakable beneath his eyes. He looked tired, alert, and permanently on duty. The note below read, “Powered by caffeine and fear of Mr. Graves.”
Alexander huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself, shaking his head slightly as a disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth. He hadn’t realized—until now—how much of the house she had noticed.
Then he flipped another page—
And froze.
Several pages in the middle of the album had been torn out.
Alexander stared at the jagged edges, his chest tightening painfully. He wondered what she had written there. What memories she had ripped away.
Slowly, he turned to the next intact page.
The photograph showed the street where he had parked his car—the day Mia left his house and went to Sawyer’s place instead. The day she discovered that he had hidden the truth about knowing her before their marriage.
Underneath, she had written:
‘This hurt so much. The most painful feeling after Mom and Dad’s death. Maybe he doesn’t even really like me.’
Alexander’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
A suffocating, haunting weight wrapped around his chest, refusing to loosen its grip. The pain was immediate, crushing. It stole the air from his lungs.
It was clear now.
Their separation had hurt her far more than she had ever shown.
Each page that followed held fragments of her thoughts from those days—confusion, pain, fear, heartbreak laid bare in ink.
He turned to another page.
A photograph of his house—taken from the outside.
Beneath it:
‘I feel scared. I don’t want to step inside this house ever again. It hurts to think that I may never go back into the house I thought was my home now.’
His fingers clenched tightly around the album, his knuckles whitening.
His heart raced as panic seeped into his veins. He flipped the pages faster now, urgency driving his movements. Every note that followed was raw, honest, broken—her emotions bleeding through every word.
He turned another page and stopped again.
Another photograph—
the same street where he had picked her up on a snowy night and brought her to his home.
Beneath it, only three words:
‘The end again?’
Alexander’s grip faltered.
The weight in his chest grew unbearable, pressing down until his fingers loosened. The album slipped from his hands, nearly crashing to the floor before instinct kicked in. He caught it at the last second, clutching it tightly against his chest as if letting go would shatter something inside him.
The sudden movement caused the album to flip open.
