Chapter 2: A Second Chance or a Dream?

[My husband kissed my hair—so happy. But when I woke up, it was just a dream.]

[My husband smiled at me today, so I treated myself to a Starbucks latte.]

[Logan wants to divorce me. My world is falling apart...]

Her handwriting was neat, careful. Every word was a secret she never meant for me to see. I could picture her curled up on the couch, scribbling in the margins, pouring out everything she never said to me.

I closed the diary, hands shaking.

Suddenly, the comments in my head sped up:

[Autumn’s soul is here to say goodbye to the hero.]

[Too bad he can’t see her. He only knows he’ll never see Autumn alive again.]

[She sees him crying and wants to hug him, but now she’s just a wisp—she can’t hold her love anymore.]

It was like watching my own grief from outside myself, like seeing my life through strangers’ eyes—strangers who somehow cared more than I ever did. I wanted to yell at them, to tell them they didn’t get it. But deep down, I knew they were right.

I stood up, desperate to hold Autumn. But all I caught was a cold draft.

The air felt heavy, thick with loss. I wrapped my arms around myself, searching for warmth, but there was only emptiness. The room seemed to close in, the silence pressing so hard I could barely breathe.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a bedroom I knew too well—but something was off.

The bedding wasn’t plain gray anymore—it was bright red silk sheets and a matching comforter. The color was loud, almost tacky. It looked like one of those hotel Valentine’s Day specials—trying so hard to force a feeling you’re not even sure you believe in. I ran my hand over the fabric, half-expecting it to vanish like a hallucination.

Suddenly, the voices piped up again:

[The hero actually traveled back to their wedding night!]

[Is this his second chance? Don’t let it end badly again.]

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Was this real? Or just another grief-soaked dream? Either way, I knew I couldn’t waste it—not this time.

I remembered exactly where I was. This was the night Autumn and I got married at the church. No vows, no guests—just us.

The chapel was empty except for us and the pastor. No music, no laughter. Just two signatures on a piece of paper and a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. I remembered how Autumn’s hand shook as she signed, how she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

After the ceremony, we went home. She left me a black credit card and her cold silhouette in the hallway.

The company needs me to work late. Take care of yourself.

She barely looked at me as she handed over the card, her voice flat and distant. I watched her walk away, heels echoing on the hardwood, and wondered if this was really what marriage was supposed to feel like.

Back then, my only thought was:

To her, work matters more than I do.

I told myself it was fine. That I didn’t need her attention, that I was used to being alone. But deep down, a small voice whispered that maybe I was just easy to leave behind.

From that night on, our three-year marriage was only on paper. We shared a last name, a mortgage, and not much else. We were like roommates who didn’t even bother with good mornings. The silence between us grew thicker every day, until it felt like another wall in the house.

......

I hadn’t even taken off my suit or my black dress shoes. Still wearing them, I ran after Autumn.

My tie was crooked, shirt wrinkled from hours of sitting in a pew. I didn’t care. I needed to see her, to say something—anything—that might break through the ice between us.

Outside, the sky was dark, rain hammering the city in sheets.

Thunder rolled overhead, streetlights painting the wet pavement in long, broken streaks. My shoes splashed through puddles as I flagged down a cab, rain soaking through my jacket. The city felt raw and alive, like it was daring me to try again.

I called a cab and told the driver to take me to Autumn’s company.

When we arrived, I looked up at the sixty-eight-story glass tower looming above me.

The building was all steel and glass and ambition—a skyscraper straight out of a business magazine. The kind of empire people spent lifetimes building. And Autumn had done it, all on her own.

From nothing, fighting through the corporate world—

This was the empire Autumn had built.

But she was so foolish. Because of something I said, she gave up her life and everything she’d accomplished.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. She’d built this world for herself, brick by brick, only to let it all go because of something careless I’d said. I felt like the villain in my own story.

I walked inside.

The lobby was all polished marble and chrome, buzzing with people who looked like they belonged in glossy magazines. I felt out of place in my rumpled suit, but I kept moving.

But I didn’t even know where her office was.

The receptionist glanced at me over her glasses. “Who are you here to see?”

Her voice was clipped, professional, with just a hint of skepticism. She looked like she could spot a faker from a mile away.

I said, “Autumn Reed.”

She gave me a polite, tight smile. “You’ll need an appointment to see Ms. Reed!”

I smiled back, holding her gaze. “I’m her husband.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and for a second, I thought she might actually laugh. But she just pressed a button on her desk and spoke quietly into her headset.

Autumn came down fast.

When she saw me, she walked toward me with deliberate, measured steps.

She moved like she was on a runway—each step calculated, posture perfect. People watched her, admiration and envy in their eyes. She was a force of nature, and I felt like a bystander in her storm.

Then the voices in my head started up again:

[When she got the call, she couldn’t believe it—‘Who’s here? My husband?’]

[Before coming down, she spritzed perfume, fixed her makeup, kept checking her hair.]

[She’s meeting her husband like a peacock in full display.]

I pictured her in the elevator, nervously checking her reflection, smoothing her skirt, making sure every hair was perfect. Maybe she cared more than she let on.

Autumn stopped in front of me, her voice cool and distant:

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

She wore a tailored skirt, her hair in elegant waves.

Her face was stunning—more refined than any Instagram filter. For a second, I almost forgot what I came to say.

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her into my arms, pressing my ear to her chest. I could hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. This was Autumn. The living, breathing Autumn.