Me From the Future

After the second miscarriage, the world had turned gray. Insomnia, palpitations, and the unshakable feeling that countless eyes were watching me from the shadows. When Mason Collins brought me home, his eyes were filled with heartbreaking tenderness. "Fiona, I've arranged for the best psychologist; you will get better." He gently stroked my hair, his voice as tender as flowing water. I did not respond, curling up silently in the corner of the sofa. The pain of losing a child wound around my heart like vines, tightening ever more. Dr. Lewis, the psychologist, came three times a week. She didn't rush me to speak, merely sat quietly across from me, listening to my broken mutterings of chaotic thoughts. Mason Collins grew especially considerate. He turned down much work, made me breakfast every day himself, and held my hand as I fell asleep each night. "What would you like to eat today?" He came into the bedroom with warm water, placing the pill in my palm. "Anything is fine." My voice remained hoarse. "Then I'll make your favorite shrimp congee." He smiled and turned away; the sunlight fell on his profile, still the familiar face I knew. Slowly, I began to fall asleep for a few hours and was willing to speak a few words of my own accord. Dr. Lewis said that my condition was improving. I attribute all of this to Mason Collins's care. Until that day, when I opened the diary resting on the bedside table. It was a habit I had kept since childhood — whether happy or sad, I would write it all down. After the miscarriage, I never touched it again. The diary lay open on the most recent page, but the handwriting was not mine. A line in black ink was clearly inscribed on the paper: Fiona, I am you ten years from now. My heart twisted sharply, and my fingertips began to tremble. Is this a hallucination? Dr. Lewis warned I might experience cognitive distortions. I blinked hard, and the handwriting remained. As I read on, each word felt like a knife stabbing my heart: Don't trust Mason Collins; he's been deceiving you all along. Your days ahead will be bleak—he will imprison you, control your mind, until you completely break down. "Impossible..." I whispered, tossing the diary aside. Mason loves me so deeply; how could he betray me? But the handwriting carried an inexplicable sense of conviction. That night, Mason Collins came home very late. "There was some work at the company today; I had to work overtime." He came over and hugged me, carrying a faint, unfamiliar scent of perfume. I stiffly pushed him away. "What's got you so busy?" "An important project—we have to keep up the pace." He avoided my gaze, his tone somewhat awkward. "Is that so?" I pressed him further. "Yeah, don't overthink it." He ruffled my hair. "Once you're feeling better, we'll go on vacation to L Island, just the two of us." L Island was once the place I most longed to visit. But at this moment, his suggestion chilled me to the core. I thought of the words in the diary and lay awake all night.