Chapter 2

The next morning, Chris left for work early.

Once he was gone, I crawled out of bed and headed to the study.

Among piles of documents and classic novels sat my diary.

I pulled it out, flipping through each page, where my thoughts lay bare—from the moment I met Chris until now.

During the years Wendy Summers was gone, I received a level of affection I never had in my previous life.

Maybe it was because I stood by him during his lowest moments that Chris treated me differently.

Even though I knew Wendy still lived in his heart, I sometimes wavered, wondering:

Maybe this time will be different?

But then I would remember those six years. I remembered how, despite all that time together, Wendy had returned, taken the place meant for me, worn the wedding dress I had picked, and kissed Chris on the day of my death.

The thought drove me mad with hatred.

Chris had to suffer, just like me—day and night, tormented by despair.

Tears fell onto my diary as I traced the photo I had taken that day.

Each stroke of my hand carved deeper wounds into my heart.

I had thought the pain would be gone by now.

“I went to pick up Chris. I saw a girl kiss him. She was happy, but I was devastated.”

On a fresh page, I jotted down these few lines.

Excitement and restraint warred within me—strange, yet oddly enjoyable.

I closed the diary and returned it to its spot.

Then I put on light makeup and slipped into a white dress.

The reflection in the mirror was serene, gentle—so different from Wendy’s boldness.

I smiled at the girl in the mirror, who smiled back at me, her dimples as sweet as honey.

Chris had complimented me long ago, saying I looked beautiful when I smiled.

But I didn’t like smiling anymore, not after coming back to relive this life.

Now, I preferred crying. Falling apart in tears reminded me I was still alive, with real emotions, made of flesh and blood.

Crying reminded me of Chris’s coldness and Wendy’s provocation.