Chapter 278 That Person Has Always Been Her

Chapter 278 That Person Has Always Been Her

Matthew sat in the master bedroom until he lost track of time.

The curtains were open. Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale strips.

He stood, went downstairs, and stopped at the liquor cabinet.

He pulled the door open.

Empty.

Every bottle was gone. Even the whiskey he'd stashed in the back three years ago.

He checked the storage cabinet beside it.

Nothing.

Then the hidden compartment under the bar.

Also empty.

Someone had cleared it all out.

He pulled out his phone and saw a message from Nico, sent two hours earlier.

[Sawyer had all the alcohol removed from your house. He said drinking won't fix anything.]

Matthew slammed his phone onto the bar. The crack echoed through the empty room.

He bent forward, hands braced on the counter, breathing hard.

Fine.

He turned toward the stairs. As he passed the entryway, something caught his eye near the shoe cabinet.

The bottom drawer wasn't shut all the way. A corner jutted out.

He crouched and pulled it open.

Inside were odds and ends. A pen, some receipts, an envelope wrapped in a rubber band.

And a notebook.

The cover was dark blue, hardbound, with worn edges.

He picked it up and opened to the first page.

The handwriting was small and careful.

A date in the upper right corner.

Twelve years ago.

He read the first two lines and stopped.

[I saw him in the library again today.

He was in the last row by the window with a physics workbook open, but he hadn't done any of the problems. His head was down on his arms, shoulders shaking.

I don't know his name. I only know he always wears that white shirt. He's thin, with hair that falls over his eyes.

He looks so sad.]

Matthew's grip tightened.

He turned the page.

[I saw him again. This time he wasn't lying down, but leaning back in his chair, staring out the window.

I sat next to him. He glanced at me but didn't speak.

I slid my workbook over and pointed to a mechanics problem in chapter three, asking if he knew how to solve it.

He didn't answer, but he looked down.

Five minutes later, he picked up a pen and wrote out a formula in my notebook.

Then he left.

But the solution was right.]

Matthew set the notebook on his knee and stared at the words.

Library. Last row. Window seat. White shirt. Physics problems.

His hands started to shake.

He kept reading.

[He didn't come today. I waited the whole period.

The next day he was back. Same seat. He opened his textbook, then suddenly closed it and pushed it away.

I sat down and put a bottle of water on his desk without saying anything.

He looked up at me.

It was the first time he really looked at me.]

Matthew's breathing went shallow.

He turned the page.

[It rained today. He didn't have an umbrella and was standing at the entrance. I ran over, shoved mine into his hands, and ran back into the rain.

He called after me, "Hey."

But I didn't turn around.

I didn't want him to see my face.]

Next page.

[He's starting to remember me. We passed each other in the hall today and he nodded.

Just once.

But I was happy the rest of the day.]

Matthew couldn't stop turning pages.

[He explained a math problem to me today. It took half an hour. His voice was quiet, and he spoke slowly, like he was making sure I understood.

I already knew how to do it.

I just wanted to hear him talk.]

One page after another.

[He smiled today.

I made a mistake in a formula — wrote a greater-than sign instead of an equals sign. He looked at it and his mouth curved up, just barely.

But I saw it.

When he smiles, his whole face changes.]

Matthew closed the notebook.

His vision blurred.

White shirt. Last row. Physics problems. The umbrella.

He remembered.

He remembered that library, that seat, that time right after his diagnosis when every day felt hollow and the world seemed muffled, like he was watching it through frosted glass.

He remembered someone who sat beside him without asking questions, without pushing, just there.

He'd always thought it was Delilah.

Because later, Delilah had said, "I went to the library every day in high school to keep you company. Remember?"

She'd said it so naturally. So easily.

He'd never questioned it.

But now he held this notebook.

The dates lined up.

The details matched.

Every entry, every moment — too specific to be anything but true.

The person who stayed beside him.

Who gave him water.

Who handed him an umbrella and ran into the rain.

It was never Delilah.

It was Abigail.

Matthew kept his head down, fingers white against the notebook's cover.

Then he remembered something else.

Their first year of marriage. Abigail had been sitting across from him at dinner and asked, "Do you remember the library in high school?"

He hadn't even looked up.

"No."

She never asked again.

The handwriting on the last page was different. No longer careful. Messier, with some words pressed so hard they'd dented the paper.

[Third year of marriage. He still doesn't remember.

He doesn't know I was the one in the library. That I gave him the umbrella. That I got those problems wrong on purpose.

He doesn't know any of it.

Because Delilah told him she did those things.

And he believed her.

He always believes her.]

The last line was short.

[I'm done.]

Matthew closed the notebook and pressed it to his chest.

The living room was silent. Moonlight fell through the window onto his face, onto the worn notebook in his hands.

He leaned back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

Seven years of loving him from a distance.

Three years of marriage.

Ten years total.

She'd spent ten years waiting, and he'd never even noticed.

Now Abigail was a Hubbard.

She had Ethan protecting her, Chris fastening her bracelets, Dashiell bringing her water.

She wasn't short on people who cared about her anymore.

She was the center of attention now. Confident. Radiant.

And Matthew?

He'd lost the one person who'd loved him most.

He sat there on the floor, holding that notebook, and didn't move for a long time.

In the months and years ahead, he would think of her late at night and sit alone in the silence.

No one would ever know if he learned how to love after that.

And no one would know how long he'd carry the weight of what he'd missed.