I Stop Our Fateful Night

The night I slept with a drunk Isabelle Moore, she had just broken up with her ex-boyfriend. She had no choice but to marry me. Our marriage was calm and steady, and I thought it would last forever. The peace lasted until her ex-boyfriend passed away from illness. When she went to pay her respects, she learned the truth: he had discovered what had happened between us that night, and that was why he had left, completely heartbroken. And it was precisely at this time that she found my secret diary of unrequited love. Convinced I'd deliberately ruined everything between her and Charles, she hated me to the bone. She divorced me, forced me to leave with nothing, and undermined me at every turn. On my deathbed, her cold voice rang in my ears, "Your love makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back two hours before that fateful night—right after she'd broken up with Charles and gone out drinking to drown her sorrows. I grabbed my coat, rushed out of my room, and knocked on the door of her ex's apartment. When he saw me, Charles froze. His eyes were red and swollen—clearly just been crying. "Jimmy Newman? What are you..." "Charles." I tried my best to keep my voice steady. "Can I come in and talk?" The living room was a mess, and there was a half-eaten cake on the coffee table. I smiled and got straight to the point. "I came to apologize for Isabelle, my older sister. It was her fault she forgot your birthday." He pressed his lips together and said nothing. "It's not that she doesn't love you. She's just really bad at expressing herself, ever since she was little. You broke up with her, and now she's alone at a bar drowning her sorrows in alcohol." With a slight pause, I urged him again, "Charles, go find her." Before this life, after Isabelle married me, she would always drink alone on Charles's birthday every year. She had never let go of him. Charles looked at me and suddenly smiled, yet his tears flowed even harder. "How did someone with her aloof personality end up with such a thoughtful little brother? I will head there now, and thanks, Jimmy." After I told him which bar Isabelle was at, he changed his clothes and left immediately. I let out a long, deep breath as his figure became smaller and smaller. This time around, that night will never happen. When I got home, I dug out the diary that I had hidden deep in my drawer. When I was ten, I lived on the streets. It was also when the eighteen-year-old Isabelle found me and took me in. She was cold and reserved to strangers, but she was always gentle and soft with me. When I first blossomed into young adulthood, I knew I was in love with her. But I also knew that this was an unrequited love that I could never bring myself to speak of. With frustration, I took out the diary and tore it up page by page. The torn pieces fell into the toilet, and I flushed them away with my own hands. About two hours later, there was a knock at the door. Charles supported a heavily drunk Isabelle as he walked in. She hung all over him, clinging tight, muttering in a slurred voice, "Charles... Don't break up... I was wrong... I am really sorry..." Helpless, Charles had to go with the flow, "Okay, okay, we won't break up, okay?" When he saw me, he let out a sigh of relief. "Jimmy, could you please make some hangover soup? I'll help her to her room first." "Sure." I hurriedly walked to the kitchen, while Charles helped her into the bedroom. I stood in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil, listening to the sounds coming from the bedroom. She was teasing and cooing at him, and he was laughing. When Isabelle first introduced me to Charles, I already knew they were perfect for each other. He was gentle and considerate. He came from a good family, was well-bred, and even treated me, his lover's little brother, so kindly. He was a good man. If it hadn't been for me, he would never have died, and they would have been so happy. This time, I will make amends for making her suffer.