Erasing Her First Love

On our wedding anniversary, my wife slit her wrists in the bathtub, dying by suicide for her late first love. When I opened her old diary, I was pulled back in time—to when Cecelia was only sixteen. Her so-called unforgettable first love was currently trying to sweet-talk her into tattooing his name on her arm. Rage flared in my chest. I yanked Cecelia behind me and snarled, "Back off, you little punk!" Cecelia suffered from severe depression. She had completely lost interest in everything. Today was our wedding anniversary. Out of nowhere, she actually asked for an anniversary cake. I was so excited that I rubbed my hands together, agreed instantly, and ran out to pick one up. Yet when I returned with a bouquet of roses and a pretty little cake, all I found was Cecelia lying motionless in a freezing bathtub, her body submerged in crimson water. The cake slipped from my hands, smashing into a ruined mess on the floor—just like this cursed anniversary. I had always known she had a dead first love, and that his passing had plunged her into deep depression. Once, I came home from work and found her numbly slicing at her own skin with a paring knife. That was the first time I ever lost my temper with her. "Cecelia, what are you doing? Cole is dead! Is it worth hurting yourself over someone who's already gone?" Cecelia helplessly dropped the knife, tears streaming down her face. "Julian, I'm sorry... I don't know why. I just can't stop myself." I let out a shaky sigh, pulled her into my arms, and gently wiped away her icy tears. "Don't be scared. You're just sick. I'll take you to a doctor. We'll get through this together." Cecelia said yes. But in the end, she broke her promise. While sorting through her belongings, I noticed an old pink princess diary fitted with a tiny copper padlock no bigger than a thumb. Her parents had adored her. Back when their family was doing well, they had bought her the trendiest lockable diary on the market. Right then, the copper lock snapped open on its own. Pages fluttered wildly without any breeze, spinning faster and faster before slamming down on a single entry. [April 16, 2013] [My sixteenth year feels like a suffocating, endless downpour. Cold and damp all year round.] Before I could read any further, a blinding flash of white light sucked me straight into the diary. A distant, ethereal voice echoed in my ears: "Child, save Cecelia..." When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting in a noisy high school cafeteria. I was wearing the varsity jacket of Oakridge High—Cecelia's high school. I caught my reflection in a clean tray. This was completely my own sixteen-year-old body! "Hey, Cecelia Vance! Your dad just fell to his death on that construction site, and your crippled mom's already turning tricks for cash! Heard you're the one who empties her dirty washcloths after every client, haha!" "Like mother, like daughter. You keep hanging around Cole asking about homework—what, are you looking to start taking clients too?" Students around the cafeteria set down their forks, craning their necks to watch the drama, snickering with cold mockery. Her deepest wound was being dragged out and paraded in broad daylight. Sixteen-year-old Cecelia flushed crimson, her fingers trembling slightly. Yet she forced herself to endure it, silently chewing her food. Seeing that she was being ignored, the girl sneered, "Deaf bitch!" and shoved her loaded tray straight into Cecelia. Cecelia couldn't dodge in time. Grease and soup splashed all over her jacket. A boy with messy, dyed hair instantly slammed his own tray upside down onto the bully's head. Covered in dripping gravy, the girl shrieked bloody murder. "Cole, you're attacking a classmate over a slut?!" a chubby kid yelled indignantly. The punk called Cole tossed his shaggy hair, grabbed a glass soda bottle, and hurled it at the chubby kid. Shards exploded across the floor, and the kid clutched his bleeding forehead in terror. "I beat anyone who runs their filthy mouth! Keep talking crap about Cecelia Vance, and I'll break every single one of your faces!" So, this was Cecelia's untouchable first love? A loudmouthed teenage delinquent? And she killed herself for "this" guy? Sure, he stood up for her. But handling things in such an unhinged, violent way—did he really think it wouldn't ruin her life?Cole handed Cecelia another glass bottle, raising an eyebrow with self-satisfied swagger. "Cecelia, give an inch and they'll take a mile. You gotta hit 'em hard so they'll never dare mess with you again." "Here, take it. Crack that liar's skull open." What the hell? This delinquent was inciting her to commit assault! My sweet, gentle future wife was not going to be dragged into the gutter by him! Cecelia hesitated, picking up the bottle. A flicker of manic desperation gleamed in her eyes. The second she raised it high, I lunged forward and shielded the girl. The heavy bottle slammed violently across my back. Damn, my future wife sure packed a punch. That hurt like hell. The madness drained from Cecelia's eyes. Panic took over, and she apologized frantically, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you?" A booming voice cut through the air: "Who's causing a riot in the cafeteria?! Don't let me catch you!" Before the vice principal could march over, Cole had already slipped out the side door without a sound. I pointed at Cole's fleeing back. "Cecelia, don't listen to him. Violence solves nothing. He starts a brawl and bolts at the first sign of trouble. Stay away from cowards who can't take responsibility." The vice principal stomped over, spitting as he barked, "Cecelia Vance! Are you the one starting fights here?!" Her family's tragedy had made her timid and defensive. Just as she was about to hang her head and take the blame, I stepped in front of her, keeping my tone calm and steady. "Sir, look at her. Cecelia is tiny and quiet. How could she possibly start a brawl?" "The one fighting was a punk named Cole. He smashed a bottle over someone's head until they bled, then took off running that way. You should hurry after him and teach him a real lesson." After checking on the injured student, the vice principal spotted the flashy punk down the hall and bolted after him. "Show's over, everyone. Move along," I announced to the crowd. As the onlookers dispersed, Cecelia hesitated, biting her lip. "Who... who are you?" I'm your future husband. The sucker of a husband you abandoned. When I saw her lifeless body in that tub, part of me had resented her. I resented that I never had a real place in her heart, that she could throw her life away so easily for a boy dead for a decade. Yet seeing her here right now, all I wanted was to rewrite her ending. Whether her future included me or not, I just wanted her to be happy. I smiled and answered softly, "Hi, Cecelia. I'm Julian Hayes. It's really good to see you again." "Julian, thank you for stepping in just now. But... why did you rat out Cole?" Great. She called him 'Cole' with that soft, defensive tone. My chest tightened. "He hurt someone. He needs to face the music. What about you? Why are you protecting him?" Cecelia fell quiet for a second. "Probably because... he's the only person in this whole school who doesn't treat me like dirt." I gestured to her clothes. "Cecelia, your jacket has grease stains all over it. Take it off." She slipped off the soiled jacket, and I immediately draped my clean varsity jacket over her shoulders. "There. Now he's not the only one." "And for the record, nobody gets to treat you like dirt. You're the brightest girl here." In my original timeline, I went to an elite private prep school in the city. In this reality, I was living with my grandfather in this small town, sitting in the exact same grade as Cecelia. Her grades were at the very top, yet she was pushed into the furthest corner of the classroom, her desk isolated. Nobody wanted to sit next to her. I picked up my desk, dragged it across the room, and pushed it right against hers. "Hey, desk mate. Let's look out for each other."Cecelia nodded obediently. At sixteen, she was so soft, so sweet. To stop her from ending her life ten years later, I had to start with Cole. Cecelia once mentioned that Cole died in a reckless motorcycle crash on a stormy night in June 2013. My mission was twofold: first, prevent his death two months from now; second, cut his toxic hold over Cecelia down to zero. Cecelia and I were in the advanced honors track, while Cole was stuck in the remedial class down the hall. During evening study hall, he tapped on the window beside her desk, flashing a two-finger running gesture. He was trying to get her to ditch school and run off with him. Cecelia looked torn. Seeing her hesitate, Cole mouthed words aggressively, hopping around like an agitated monkey outside the glass. Just as she moved to stand up, I caught her arm. "Cecelia, you bruised my back earlier. You owe me some tutoring as payback." Guilt flickered across her face. "Okay." I took a notebook, scribbled bold letters across the page, and held it up against the glass: [SHE'S NOT GOING.] Then I mouthed a clear "piss off" at him. I graduated from an Ivy League university, so I originally planned to show off and tutor her myself. Turns out, after all these years, I had forgotten half of high school calculus and chemistry. Cecelia let out a quiet giggle, pulled over some scrap paper, and patiently broke down the problems for me. Every time she finished explaining a concept, I showered her with praise. She tried to play it cool, but she couldn't stop the small, proud smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Teenage girls just needed genuine encouragement. Cecelia seemed to rediscover her confidence through studying. Whenever Cole showed up trying to drag her out for joyrides, she made excuses, saying she had to help me with schoolwork. At least right now, my future wife's heart was leaning a little closer to me. Knowing Cecelia had barely any pocket money, Cole often snuck into our classroom to shove cheap junk food into her desk. Every time she found those snacks, her face lit up. I felt a pang of jealousy. In our marriage, I had showered her with gifts—designer bags, jewelry, cosmetics, even hand-crafted keepsakes that took me weeks to make. She had always received them with calm detachment. She was so impossible to please as an adult, yet a bag of cheap chips from a punk made her beam like sunlight. I plucked out a peach jelly cup and tossed it straight into the trash. "You're allergic to peaches. He doesn't even know what you can eat, and he's trying to play the hero?" Cecelia frowned, clearly annoyed. "Cole told me that while the whole world throws mud at me, he's the only one bringing me flowers. How could you just throw away his kindness?" I rubbed my temples, suppressing a groan. "Sweetheart, he's textbook gaslighting you." From that day on, I brought her milk and fresh breakfast sandwiches every morning, packed seasonal fruit for after lunch, and stocked her desk with high-end snacks. "This is what real attention looks like. If someone tries to flatter you with anything less, don't even look at them. Got it, silly girl?" When the monthly weekend break arrived, Cole pulled up on a battered motorcycle, helmet in hand, and whistled at Cecelia. "Cecelia, don't bother going home. You'll just get in the way of your mom's clients. Everyone else treats you like trash, but I'll do you a favor—come crash at my place."