Those words reminded me of the twenty-eight-year-old Ryan.
Every morning, he used to tell me: “I think I love you more than I did yesterday.”
Each post, each word, was like a knife driven into my chest.
Then, Ryan sent me a message:
“Claire, I’m heading out with the driver to pick up Emily. You know how she hates crowded places. So, you’ll have to head to the party venue on your own later. Thanks, buddy.”
The smile tugging at my lips was uglier than tears.
My husband Ryan had never once broken his word. But this Ryan, the eighteen-year-old him, broke his promises to me as if it were routine.
“Okay.”
“Oh, and by the way, Emily’s on her period. If someone tries to get her to drink, you have to drink for her, otherwise she’ll feel awful.”
But I was allergic to alcohol. Ryan at eighteen had already forgotten.
Back in our freshman year of high school, Ryan had stolen a piece of liquor-filled chocolate from home.
That day, my allergy nearly killed me. Ryan sat at my hospital bedside, guilt written all over his face.
Later, I found out—it was meant for Emily, but she hadn’t wanted it.
Ryan’s social media updated again.
“Emily, what kind of confession could ever show you how much I like you?”
I closed my eyes slowly and answered that question.
“I want to leave him…”
“If you’re certain, there’ll be no turning back. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
When I regained consciousness, evening was already approaching.
The party had begun.
My phone buzzed with messages asking when I’d arrive—not a single one from Ryan.
When I finally got to the Karaoke Room, I heard Ryan’s voice from inside.
“My confession plan has to stay secret. I can’t let it fail.”
His tone carried both excitement and anticipation.
“Ryan, haven’t you ever thought about Claire? You two grew up together. I don’t think she’s any worse than Emily.”
Ryan went silent for a while.
“We’re just friends. I could never like her. To me, she’s nothing more than a friend—past, present, or future.”
In that moment, my heart clenched like it was being torn apart.
“Ryan, don’t get ahead of yourself. What if Emily ends up marrying someone else? What would you do then? Find another girl just like her?”
Ryan didn’t respond.
I guessed he took those words to heart—that’s why the me ten years later would exist.
“If you’re not interested in Claire, then I’ll go after her. A girl that good, and you don’t even notice? I’d be more than happy to.”
Ryan chuckled.