I never meant to read his diary. It fell out of his drawer while I was putting away laundry, and curiosity whispered louder than my better judgment. At first, it was sweet — little notes about our mornings, the way I smile before I’m fully awake, how grateful he was for our quiet life. My heart softened… until I turned another page.

There she was. A woman who wasn’t me. He described how his heart raced around her, how she brought back excitement he didn’t know he missed. The words felt like cold water on my skin, each sentence tightening the knot in my chest. Beautiful. Kind. Warm. Someone who understands me in ways I haven’t felt in years. My breath caught — was I losing him without even knowing?

I kept reading, even though my hands shook. Then suddenly, the tone changed. She has your laugh, he wrote. She reminds me of when we first met, when you were carefree and I was still learning how to love without fear. My pulse softened as realization bloomed — he wasn’t writing about someone new. He was writing about the version of me he missed, the one I had slowly forgotten while life became schedules, bills, routines, and tired evenings.

I closed the diary and sat still for a long time. He didn’t want another woman — he wanted us back. That younger spark, the laughter, the simple joy of choosing each other every day. I placed the diary gently back into the drawer and breathed deeply. Tonight, instead of asking him why he wrote it, I’ll simply ask if he wants to take a walk with me — like we used to — and start finding our way back.