MY FIANCÉ’S NEW BOOK HAD MY DEAD SISTER’S HANDWRITING IN IT
I dropped the photo album, its sharp corner digging into my bare foot, and gasped.
This wasn’t Sarah’s old album; this copy felt wrong, its cover slick and cold. The scent of old paper filled the room. Inside, scrawled in faint blue ink, a note stole my breath. It was her unique loop-de-loop ‘S’, the tiny heart she dotted her ‘i’s with.
“To my dearest always,” it read, dated weeks before her accident. My throat felt tight and dry. Why was *her* writing in Finn’s new poetry book, delivered today?
Finn walked in, his smile vanishing as he saw the book splayed open. “Why is this here? How did you get this?” I whispered, barely audible. His eyes darted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face, then settled.
He cleared his throat, pushing hands into pockets. “It’s complicated. I found it, months ago, at a used bookstore. I meant to tell you.” His words felt hollow, not matching the inscription. This wasn’t some random find.
Then I saw the date written on the back: the day *after* her funeral.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*”You found it… the day *after* she died, in a used bookstore?” My voice cracked, the accusation sharp in the air. “Sarah never used used bookstores. She cherished her books. And you… you knew her handwriting. You *knew*.”
He flinched, his carefully constructed facade crumbling. “Okay, look,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “It’s not what you think. It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated like you faked finding this book? Complicated like you’re lying about knowing it’s Sarah’s?” I demanded, the photo album lying forgotten on the floor.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I met Sarah a few times before her accident. We talked about poetry. She mentioned she was writing in one of her books for someone she loved. We talked about her relationship. She told me that she can’t be with him because he is not reliable. When I heard about the accident, I thought about that conversation. So, after the funeral, I felt compelled to find that book. So I went to her apartment. I just needed to see it, to understand. And yes, I found this. Then I got scared. I knew how it would look. But I didn’t want to lose you, not like that.”
I stared at him, shock warring with a growing wave of understanding. He had known her, known about me, and kept it a secret. “You went to her apartment? Without telling anyone?”
“I know, it was wrong. It was stupid. I was grieving too, in my own way. I saw how happy she was. And then she was gone, and she never gave that book to him. I knew I had to find him and give it to him, but who was he?”
“So you kept it all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He stepped closer, reaching for my hand. “Because I was a coward. I was afraid of how you’d react. I was afraid of losing you, too. I was planning to give it back, to find out to whom it was given. I swear I was.”
I pulled my hand away, needing space to think. The pieces were starting to fit, but the image they formed was far more complex, more painful, than I could have imagined. “If you were planning to give it back, then why you kept it?”
He hung his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Maybe a part of me wanted to keep a piece of her close. Maybe I was hoping it’d reveal who he was.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of the past. I looked at the book, at Sarah’s familiar handwriting, and then back at Finn, his face etched with guilt and regret.
“We need to find him,” I said, my voice firm. “We need to give him this book.”
Finn looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, we’ll do it together.”