Chapter One Hundred Forty-Eight: The Diary of a Man Who Loved Too Much
The office was quiet after Kang Dae left.
Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against my ears and made the walls feel closer, the ceiling lower, the air thinner. I wandered the room again, my fingers trailing across the spines of books I didn't recognize, the cool surface of sculptures I couldn't name. The photograph was still in my hand—my face, my smile, the Eiffel Tower sparkling behind me like a promise.
I set it back on the desk.
Carefully. Precisely. Exactly where it had been.
Then I saw the drawer.
It wasn't locked. Most of his drawers were locked—I'd tested them, idly, my curiosity sharpened by boredom. But this one, the narrow drawer on the left side of his desk, slid open without resistance.
Inside, a diary.
Leather-bound, worn at the edges, the kind of book that had been opened and closed a thousand times. The cover was dark brown, the same shade as the shirt I was wearing, the one that smelled like him.
My breath caught.
It's his private thing, I thought. You shouldn't look. You shouldn't search. You shouldn't—
He's your husband.
He's your husband, and you don't remember him, and maybe—maybe this will help.
I pulled the diary from the drawer.
The leather was soft beneath my fingers, warm from being hidden in the dark. I held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, the weight of his words, the weight of secrets I hadn't earned the right to know.
Then I opened it.
His handwriting.
Sharp, slanted, almost aggressive—the handwriting of a man who didn't have time for curves or flourishes. The ink was black, pressed deep into the page, as if he'd been writing with something to prove.
I flipped to a random page.
You took a bullet for me.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I pressed my hand to my chest, my heart pounding, my breath shallow.
You took a bullet for me, and I almost lost you. I stood in that hospital room, watching the machines breathe for you, watching your chest rise and fall with a rhythm that wasn't yours. I held your hand, and it was cold. Your hand was cold, Angel. Your hand was never cold.
I wanted to die.
I wanted to trade places with you so badly I could taste it. I would have given anything—everything—my empire, my money, my worthless, blood-soaked life—to see you open your eyes.
But you didn't.
You slept.
And I waited.
I turned the page.
They took you. They took you from me, and I couldn't protect you. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't do anything but chase ghosts and pray to a God I don't believe in.
You were in the jungle.
You were in the jungle, and I was in a helicopter, and every second that passed felt like a lifetime.
When I found you, you were bleeding. You were bleeding, and you were crying, and you were reaching for me.
I caught you.
I always catch you.
But I shouldn't have to.
You shouldn't be in danger. You shouldn't be bleeding. You shouldn't be reaching for me because I'm the reason you're falling.
Another page.
The thing that hurts the most.
I traced the words with my fingertip, feeling the indentations in the paper.
The thing that hurts the most isn't the bullets. It isn't the jungle. It isn't the nights I spent on my knees, begging a God I don't believe in to bring you back.
The thing that hurts the most is when you woke up.
When you opened your eyes, and you looked at me, and you asked, "Who are you?"
I closed my eyes.
The words burned behind my lids.
You asked me who I was.
I had to lie. I had to pretend to be someone else. Someone who didn't love you. Someone who didn't know the shape of your smile or the sound of your laugh or the way you say my name when you think I'm sleeping.
I said I was your doctor.
Your doctor.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to fall at your feet and tell you everything—who I was, who you were, what we'd been through. I wanted to hold you and never let go.
But I couldn't.
You were fragile. Your mind was fragile. And I was the monster who had broken it.
I pressed the diary to my chest.
The tears came then—hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks, dripping onto the leather cover. I didn't wipe them away. Couldn't. My hands were shaking, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
I had to lie. I had to pretend.
But I failed.
I always fail when it comes to you. You looked at me with those eyes—those beautiful, confused, trusting eyes—and I crumbled. I couldn't stay away. I couldn't pretend I didn't love you.
So I didn't.
I loved you openly. Desperately. Recklessly.
And you loved me back.
Again.
I turned the page.
My hands were trembling so hard I could barely hold the book.
It's the third time.
The third time you've fallen in love with me.
The first was in Seoul, before the accident. You wrote about me in your diary—the diary you don't remember, the diary I've kept hidden. You watched me from a distance. You loved me from a distance. And I never knew.
The second was in Italy. After the crash. You saved my life, and I walked away. I left you bleeding in a wrecked car, and I never looked back.
But you found me again.
You always find me.
And now—
Now you've forgotten me again. You woke up in a hospital bed, and you didn't know my name. You didn't know my face. You didn't know that I've been in love with you since before you knew I existed.
But you love me anyway.
You love me, and you don't know why. You love me, and you can't remember the first time you said it. You love me, and I don't deserve it.
I've never deserved it.
I closed the diary.
My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking. The tears were streaming down my face, hot and relentless, and I couldn't stop them.
Maybe in every universe.
The words echoed in my chest, burning and beautiful.
Maybe in every universe, you love me. Maybe in every universe, I find you. Maybe in every universe, I fail you, and you forgive me, and we start again.
Destiny always makes you fall for me.
Every time.
And I fall harder.
Every time.
But I love you the most.
In this universe. In every universe. I love you the most.
I pressed the diary to my heart.
The leather was warm now, warmed by my tears, warmed by the weight of his words. I curled onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest, the diary clutched against me like a lifeline.
The tears kept coming.
Not sad tears. Not happy tears. Something else—something I couldn't name, something that felt like coming home after a long, long journey.
I closed my eyes.
And I slept.
---
The door opened.
I didn't hear it. I was too deep in dreams—dreams of him, dreams of the words he'd written, dreams of a love that spanned universes.
"…the shipping routes will need to be renegotiated," a voice was saying. "The Japanese consortium is demanding—"
"Let them demand."
Taehyun's voice. Sharp. Impatient. The voice he used when he was tired of talking.
"They're not in a position to—"
"They're not in a position to do anything." A pause. "I'll handle it. Tomorrow. Today, I'm—"
He stopped.
The footsteps stopped.
The voices stopped.
I felt it, even in sleep—the shift in the air, the sudden, charged silence. I stirred, the diary slipping against my chest, my fingers curling around the worn leather.
"Leave."
Taehyun's voice was different now. Low. Dangerous. The voice of a man who had just seen something he didn't want to share.
"Sir, the meeting—"
"Leave."
"But—"
"NOW."
The door closed.
The footsteps retreated.
And then—
Silence.
I felt him approach. Felt the warmth of him, the weight of his gaze. The diary was still pressed to my chest, my fingers still curled around the cover, my cheeks still wet with tears.
"Angel."
His voice was soft now. Barely a whisper.
"Angel, wake up."
I didn't open my eyes.
Couldn't.
The dream was too sweet—the dream where he loved me, where he'd always loved me, where I'd fallen for him in every universe and would keep falling until the stars burned out.
"Angel."
His hand touched my cheek.
Gentle. Careful. His thumb brushed away a tear.
"Were you crying?"
I leaned into his touch.
He pulled me into his arms.
Not gently. Not carefully. He pulled me against his chest, one arm around my waist, the other cradling my head. His coat—his coat was suddenly around me, warm and heavy, smelling of him.
"Angel." His voice was rough, trembling. "What are you doing here?"
I didn't answer.
Couldn't.
The diary was still in my hands, pressed between us, a secret I couldn't hide.
He looked down.
His breath caught.
"Angel."
"Tete."
"You found it."
"I found it."
"Angel—"
"You wrote about me."
"Angel—"
"You wrote about me, and I read it, and I—" I opened my eyes. He was close—so close I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, the fear he was trying to hide. "I love you."
"Angel—"
"I love you, and I don't remember, and I don't know why you think you've failed me when you've done nothing but—"
"I left you." His voice cracked. "I left you in a wrecked car. In a foreign country. I walked away while you were reaching for me."
"Tete—"
"I walked away, and I didn't look back, and you almost died."
"But I didn't."
"You almost did."
"But I didn't." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "I'm here. I'm alive. I'm in your arms."
"Angel."
"I'm in your arms, and I'm not going anywhere."
He closed his eyes.
His forehead pressed to mine.
"You read my diary."
"I read your diary."
"My private diary."
"Your private diary."
"That was an invasion of privacy."
"You're my husband."
"That doesn't give you the right—"
"It gives me every right." I pulled back, just enough to look at him. "You wrote about me. About us. About a love that spans universes."
"Angel—"
"That's not private. That's ours."
"Angel—"
"You love me the most."
He stared at me.
His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"In every universe," he said finally.
"In every universe."
"You love me first."
"I love you always."
"You don't remember."
"I remember this." I pressed my hand to his heart. "I remember the way you look at me. The way you hold me. The way you say my name when you think I'm sleeping."
"Angel."
"I remember you, Tete. Even when I don't remember anything else."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I do." I smiled, small and trembling. "I love you too. In this universe. In every universe. I love you the most."
He pulled me closer.
His coat wrapped around me.
And in the quiet office, on the leather couch, surrounded by his books and his sculptures and the photograph of my smiling face, I held him.
And he held me.
And the diary lay between us, open to a page that read:
Maybe in every universe, you love me. Maybe in every universe, I find you. Maybe in every universe, I fail you, and you forgive me, and we start again.
But I love you the most.
I love you the most.
I love you the most.