Chapter 3 His Study, Her Shock

# Chapter 3: His Study, Her Shock

"We need to talk," Terry said as I emerged from the hallway, trying to appear casual. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."

The irony almost made me laugh. I'd just discovered evidence of his deception, and now he wanted to confess? Part of me wanted to confront him immediately about the forged handwriting practice I'd found, but curiosity held me back. I wanted to see how much he would admit on his own.

"I'm listening," I said, crossing my arms.

Terry gestured toward the living room sofa. Once we were seated—me perched tensely on the edge, him leaning forward with his elbows on his knees—he took a deep breath.

"The love diary... it's not real. At least, not entirely."

I feigned surprise, though my anger was genuine. "You fabricated our love story?"

"No!" Terry looked pained. "Our relationship is real, Jacqueline. Our engagement is real. But after your accident, when you looked at me with so much hatred... I panicked. I thought if I could show you how perfect our relationship had been, your memories might return faster."

"So you lied." My voice was flat.

"I... enhanced the truth," he admitted. "The major events in the diary happened, but I romanticized the details. Made our story seem more like a movie and less like real life with its complications and arguments."

I studied his face—the furrowed brow, the anxious eyes, the tense jaw. He seemed genuinely remorseful, but I'd spent the past two weeks questioning everything about my reality. How could I trust anything now?

"What about the entries in my handwriting?" I asked. "Did you forge those too?"

Terry's silence was answer enough.

"That's a new low, even for you," I said coldly, rising from the sofa. "I need some time alone."

"Jacqueline, please—"

"Don't." I held up my hand. "I understand you're in a difficult position. I can't imagine how it feels to have your fiancée suddenly not remember loving you. But lying to me isn't the solution."

I retreated to the guest bedroom—I still couldn't think of the master bedroom as "ours"—and locked the door, my mind swirling with questions and doubts. If Terry had fabricated the diary, what else might he be lying about?

For three days, we existed in uncomfortable détente. Terry slept on the couch, giving me the guest room. He continued working from home, and I continued exploring the fragments of my life—examining my work portfolio, scrolling through social media accounts I didn't remember creating, texting with friends who felt like strangers.

On the fourth day, Terry approached me with a tentative peace offering—my favorite coffee and a plain, undecorated notebook.

"I thought maybe we could start over," he suggested. "No fake diaries, no embellished stories. Just the truth, day by day, as we figure this out together."

The gesture was thoughtful, and despite my lingering anger, I felt myself softening. The Terry Walker I remembered from high school would never have admitted his mistakes, let alone tried to make amends.

"I'd like that," I said, accepting the coffee and notebook.

Terry's smile was relieved. "I have to go into the office today—board meeting I can't miss. Will you be okay here alone?"

I nodded. "I've been meaning to explore the apartment more thoroughly anyway. Maybe something will trigger a memory."

After Terry left, I did exactly that—methodically going through each room, examining photographs, opening drawers, trying to piece together the woman I had apparently become. The kitchen revealed I'd developed a taste for spicy food. The living room bookshelves suggested I'd maintained my love of classic literature but added interests in architectural history and sustainable design.

When I reached Terry's study again, I hesitated. I'd already invaded his privacy once, but my earlier exploration had been interrupted. If I wanted answers about our relationship, this room likely held them.

The study was as I'd left it—meticulously organized with the exception of that one drawer containing the handwriting practice sheets. I decided to be more systematic this time, starting with the bookshelf where I'd found the box of coffee sleeves.

Behind a row of business books, I discovered a photo album I hadn't noticed before. Inside were pictures of me—candid shots taken over what appeared to be many years. Me leaving a building with classmates, presumably in college. Me at a coffee shop, working intently on a laptop. Me at what looked like professional networking events.

Some photos were from a distance, as if Terry had been observing me without my knowledge. Others were closer, suggesting we were actually together. The chronology was confusing—there seemed to be gaps of years between some photos, yet Terry had arranged them sequentially, like documenting a continuous relationship.

Had we been together all this time? Or had Terry been... following me?

I returned the album to its hiding place, increasingly uneasy. Next, I turned my attention to the desk. The top drawer contained standard office supplies—pens, paper clips, sticky notes. The second drawer held files related to Terry's work at Walker Industries. The third was locked.

I tried several keys from the key bowl in the entryway before finding one that worked. Inside the locked drawer was a small velvet box—too large for a ring, too small for documents. I opened it to find a delicate silver bracelet with a single charm: a miniature coffee cup. Attached was a note in Terry's handwriting:

"To replace the one you lost. Happy 30th birthday, Jackie."

It seemed innocent enough, though I couldn't recall any significance to coffee cups in our supposed relationship beyond the collection of sleeves I'd found.

I continued my search, examining the built-in cabinets that lined one wall of the study. Most contained business documents, tech magazines, and industry reports. But behind a hinged section of paneling—what I initially mistook for a decorative element—I discovered a hidden compartment.

My heart raced as I carefully pulled it open, unsure what I might find.

Letters. Hundreds of them. No—thousands.

The compartment was deep and completely filled with envelopes, all the same size, all addressed to me in Terry's handwriting. None bore stamps or postmarks; they had never been mailed.

With trembling hands, I pulled out the first bundle, secured with twine and labeled "2013." I opened the top envelope and unfolded the letter inside:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*I saw you today at the alumni event. You were wearing a blue dress and talking about sustainable architecture with Professor Harmon. You didn't notice me, which is probably for the best. I wouldn't know what to say anyway.*

*It's been four years since graduation, and I still can't forget how you looked at me that last day—like I was everything you despised in the world. I don't blame you. I was exactly the entitled, arrogant jerk you thought I was.*

*I've changed—or I'm trying to. Father wanted me to go directly into the family business, but I insisted on earning my MBA first, making my own connections instead of relying on his. I think you'd be proud of that, if you knew.*

*Maybe someday I'll have the courage to actually speak to you again.*

*- Terry"*

I set the letter aside, my hands shaking, and opened another from the same bundle:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*Your article in Architectural Digest was brilliant. I've always known you were talented, but seeing your work recognized nationally made me embarrassingly proud, as if I had any right to feel pride in your accomplishments.*

*I almost called you today. I had your number on the screen (don't ask how I got it—Walker Industries has its resources), but I couldn't press dial. What would I even say? 'Sorry I was a complete ass in high school, want to get coffee?' You'd hang up immediately, and you'd be right to do so.*

*So I'll add this to the pile of letters you'll never read, and hope that someday I find the right words.*

*- Terry"*

I sat down hard on the floor, surrounded by years of Terry's one-sided correspondence. Bundle after bundle, year after year. Some letters were pages long; others contained just a few sentences. Some were written on Walker Industries letterhead; others on hotel stationery from around the world. The most recent bundle was labeled "2023," just months ago.

The letters told a story—Terry's story. His gradual maturation from the privileged boy I remembered to a man struggling to prove himself beyond his family name. His career achievements and setbacks. His complicated relationship with his demanding father. And woven throughout, like a persistent melody, his unwavering feelings for me.

The earliest letters dated back to our high school graduation—approximately 3650 letters, if I calculated correctly. One for each day of the past ten years.

I opened one from the "2009" bundle, the oldest collection:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*High school graduation. I had it all planned out—I would finally tell you how I feel. Four years of pretending to be your rival when all I wanted was your attention, and today was finally my chance to come clean.*

*But then you looked at me on that stage and said those words I'll never forget: 'This is why you're the person I hate most in the world.' And you were right to hate me. I let my father pressure the school board into giving me the valedictorian spot that you earned. I let my insecurity stop me from being honest about my feelings. I let you walk away believing I was nothing but a spoiled, entitled jerk.*

*Maybe that's all I am.*

*This letter will join the others—the ones I've been writing since sophomore year, the ones I never had the courage to give you. Maybe someday that will change.*

*- Terry"*

I sat surrounded by the letters for hours, reading randomly selected pieces from different years, piecing together the story of a man who had loved me from afar for a decade before we reconnected. The earliest letters revealed an immature boy hiding his crush behind competition and arrogance. The later ones showed a man growing into himself, building his own identity separate from his family's expectations, always with me as a distant focal point.

And then the letters from 2019 onward changed—they became more immediate, more joyful. No longer writing to an idealized version of me, Terry was responding to our actual interactions, our developing relationship, our growing love. These letters felt real in a way the fake diary never had—messy and honest, documenting arguments and reconciliations, doubts and certainties.

One from 2021 caught my eye:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*You complained about my handwriting again today. 'How can someone so meticulous about everything else scribble like a doctor on caffeine pills?' you asked. I laughed it off, but the truth is, I'm embarrassed. My father always said my handwriting reflected a lack of discipline, another way I failed to meet the Walker standard.*

*I know you were just teasing, but I've enrolled in a calligraphy course starting next week. Not because I think you actually care about my penmanship, but because I want to write you letters you'll enjoy reading—real letters that I'll actually give you, not just add to this collection of one-sided conversations.*

*Maybe for our anniversary next year, I'll finally show you these. All 4,745 of them (yes, I counted). You'll probably think I'm insane. Maybe I am. Who writes letters every day to someone who spent years not knowing they exist?*

*A man in love, I suppose.*

*- Terry"*

I was so absorbed in the letters that I didn't hear the front door open. I didn't realize Terry had returned until he was standing in the doorway of the study, his face a mixture of shock and mortification as he took in the scene—me sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his most private thoughts, years of his heart spread out around me.

"Jacqueline," he breathed, his voice barely audible. "I can explain."

I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes. The vulnerability in his expression matched the raw honesty of the letters scattered around me. For the first time since waking up in the hospital, I felt like I was seeing the real Terry Walker.

"Your handwriting is terrible," I said, my voice breaking slightly. "It gives me a headache."

Terry's face crumpled, and for a moment I thought he might cry. Then he saw the smile I couldn't quite suppress, and something like hope flickered in his eyes.

"I know," he admitted. "I've been told that before."

He stepped carefully into the room, navigating around the piles of letters until he was kneeling beside me. "I was going to show these to you eventually. After we were married. I just... I wasn't ready for you to see how pathetic I was, pining after you for all those years."

"It's not pathetic," I said softly, picking up one of the letters. "It's actually kind of beautiful. Misguided and slightly stalkerish at times, but beautiful."

A surprised laugh escaped him. "That's a generous interpretation."

"Why didn't you just show me these instead of creating that fake diary?" I asked. "These are real. They tell our actual story."

Terry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because our actual story starts with me being the villain in your life. I was afraid if you knew how badly I behaved in high school, how long it took me to become someone worthy of you, you'd never give me another chance."

I looked around at the sea of letters—tangible proof of a devotion that spanned a decade, that existed long before I apparently returned his feelings.

"I think," I said carefully, "I'd like to hear our real story now. No embellishments, no romantic gloss. Just the truth."

Terry nodded, his eyes serious. "Where should I start?"

I held up the earliest letter I'd found, dated the day of our high school graduation.

"Start here," I said. "And don't leave anything out."