Thirty minutes later, I stood at the familiar gates. Evening air washed over me—street food, chatter, the careless laughter of students who still believed the world was kind.
I opened the diary. New sentences had appeared.
*"My Amy is the best girl in the whole world. I feel like I'm with her every moment, even when we're apart."*
*"If I'd known earlier, I would've applied to her university. Then I could see her every day. But being in the same city is enough—at least I get weekends."*
*"Amy said she was craving the little wontons from the stall by the gate. Silly girl. She thinks I don't know she just wants to save me money."*
A sad, wistful smile tugged at my mouth.
I remembered writing this. Freshman year.
We were at different schools, separated by an hour-long bus ride. Every Friday, I crossed the city to see her.
I was broke back then. Amy knew it. She claimed to love those cheap wontons so I wouldn't blow my meager allowance on expensive meals.
And every Sunday, before I left, she'd secretly stuff cash into my pockets.
As I stood there lost in memory, ink bled onto the page again.
*"I've thought about it. I believe you. You really are Dominic from the future."*
*"Forget the nonsense you wrote earlier. I won't hold it against you. We're the same person, after all."*
*"Now, tell me the truth—did Amy and I get married? Is she my wife in the future?"*
My smile vanished. The words blurred as my eyes stung.
*Is she my wife?*
Yes.
And I killed her spirit before her body ever gave out.
I hesitated for a long time, pen hovering over paper. Finally, I wrote:
*"Yes. You married her. She is your wife."*
The reply came instantly, handwriting jagged with excitement.
*"See?! And you told me not to confess! If I didn't confess, how would I land such an amazing wife?"*
*"Listen to me, Old Man. You'd better treat my Amy like a queen. If you hurt her, I won't let you off the hook!"*
*"Oh, right—Amy loves that wonton shop by the gate. Buy her a bowl for me. Even if you've been married for years, you have to keep winning her heart every single day."*
I stood frozen for a long moment.
Eventually, I snapped the diary shut and walked toward the snack street.
Twelve years had passed. The humble wonton stall had evolved into a proper shop, and the proprietress's hair was now streaked with gray.