The Farewell Letter

Sienna Scott's breathing stopped at three o'clock in the morning. The nurse gently drew the white curtain, blocking out the faint light of dawn. I stood at the hospital room door, my fingertips still holding the last trace of her warmth—cold as the winter wind outside the window. After completing the hospital procedures, I returned to the empty house. By then, the day had already broken. On the shoe cabinet by the entrance lay her pink slippers, their toes pointing toward the door, as if waiting for me to come home. I didn't change my shoes; I walked straight into the study. In the corner of the top shelf of the bookcase sat a dark brown wooden box, covered with a thin layer of dust. It was my diary from when I was eighteen, sealed away for twelve years. When Sienna Scott was alive, she never touched my things, and this wooden box was especially carefully tucked away in the corner, never once mentioned. I don't know why it suddenly came to mind. Perhaps my subconscious was trying to find something from the past to fill the emptiness she left behind. I moved a chair over and stood on tiptoe to take down the wooden box. The wooden box's lock had long since rusted; a gentle twist was all it took to open it. Inside was only a yellowed notebook, its cover adorned with a popular basketball star from the time, the edges worn and frayed. I sat at my desk and slowly opened it. The handwriting inside was inexperienced and messy, recording the thoughts of my eighteen-year-old self—mostly about school, with occasional hints of vague affection for a certain girl. That girl was Sienna Scott. I flipped through the pages one by one, my heart feeling as if gripped by an invisible hand. Until I reached the very last page. On a once blank page, a new line of handwriting suddenly appeared, the ink still faintly damp. "Randal Xavier, I am you at eighteen." "Tomorrow is Sienna Scott's birthday; I'm planning to confess my feelings to her." "Are you married to her now?" My breath caught sharply. My fingertips brushed over the line; the ink still seemed warm. This can't be. I blinked hard, then looked again; the words were still clearly imprinted on the paper. Eighteen-year-old me, on that night twelve years ago, had written a question to the future. And yet, on the very day Sienna Scott passed away, these words suddenly appeared in this long-forgotten, dusty diary. I abruptly stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. My mind went completely blank, with only those words echoing relentlessly. Married. We're married. But now she's gone. Staggering back to my desk, I grabbed the pen lying there and trembled as I wrote a reply beneath those words. "Don't confess." As soon as I wrote those words, the pen's tip broke, ink spilling out. Tears fell without warning, blotting the paper and smearing the ink. I covered my face, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably. If I hadn't confessed back then, would none of this have happened? Would Sienna Scott have had to endure so much suffering with me, and would we never have come to this point?