I FOUND MARK’S OLD RED JOURNAL UNDER THE BED AND NOW EVERYTHING IS WRONG
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the journal on the floor. The worn leather cover felt cool against my trembling fingers as I pulled it out. It was tucked far back, beneath the frame where he always said nothing fit.
Flipping through the brittle pages, I saw unfamiliar handwriting, tighter, neater than his usual messy scrawl. Pages were filled, not just random notes but paragraphs, dated entries stretching back years before we even met.
A specific date jumped out at me, a date from years ago, the night *he* swore he stayed home sick. The words blurred, but I saw my sister’s name, written over and over in careful script next to plans I couldn’t believe. When he walked in, finding me hunched over it, I just choked out, “What is this?”
He went pale, the color draining from his face faster than I’ve ever seen. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just stared at the open page where her name was scrawled. The air felt thick and suddenly hard to breathe as the implications hit me, cold and sharp.
Then my phone rang, showing my sister’s picture smiling brightly.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The phone continued to ring, her happy face on the screen a brutal contrast to the horror unfolding before me. Mark flinched as the sound cut through the silence, his eyes flicking from the journal page to the phone in my hand.
“What is this, Mark?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper, then rising with a tremor, “That date! You said you were sick! And *her* name? What were these plans?” I shoved the journal towards him, the open page visible.
He finally moved, a step forward, reaching out a hand as if to cover the page or take the book. “It’s… it’s nothing. Old stuff. Before…”
“Before *us*?” I finished, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Yes, I can see that. But it’s about *her*. My sister. And plans you made years ago. What plans involved my sister? On a night you lied about?”
His hand dropped. He looked genuinely terrified now, trapped. “It’s complicated. It wasn’t… it wasn’t like that.”
“Then explain it!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Explain why my sister’s name is all over this entry from the night you were supposedly home with a fever! Explain ‘meet her at the library,’ explain ‘ensure [Sister’s Name] mentions the party,’ explain ‘Phase 1: Gain [Sister’s Name]’s trust’!” The words tumbled out, fragments I had only half-registered in my shock but were now crystal clear and sickening.
He flinched as I spoke, his face contorting. “I… I met her first,” he stammered. “Briefly. Through a mutual friend. I saw a picture of you. He mentioned you. And…” He trailed off, looking away.
“And you decided to use her?” The implications hit me like a physical blow. My relationship, my life with him, wasn’t some organic, natural thing. It was planned. Engineered.
“No! Not use her! I just… I knew if I got to know her, I’d eventually meet you. I didn’t know how else to approach you. I was awkward, I didn’t think I stood a chance. The plans… they were just ways to get introduced, to make sure I’d see you. That night… I wasn’t sick. I was at that library, hoping to run into her, hoping she’d bring you up, hoping… I was just trying to get close enough to meet you naturally.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Every step was just about getting to you. I fell in love with you, truly, after I met you. Everything else… it was just the clumsy, stupid, wrong way I thought I had to do it.”
The phone stopped ringing. The silence returned, heavy and full of everything he hadn’t said but the journal implied. Manipulation. Deception from the very beginning. The foundation of everything we were was a lie.
My trembling stopped, replaced by a cold, clear resolve. I closed the journal carefully, the sound echoing in the room. “Get out, Mark,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Get out of my house.”
He stared at me, opening his mouth to protest, to beg.
“Now,” I repeated, holding the journal against my chest like a shield. “Pack a bag. Go. Don’t call me. Don’t contact my sister. Just go.”
He stood there for a long moment, the pale face, the fear in his eyes, the journal open between us just moments before. Then, slowly, defeated, he turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps retreating leaving only the echoes of his confession and the chilling revelation of a love story built on calculated lies. The red journal lay on the bed between us, a silent testament to a beginning I now wished had never happened.