If The Clock Could Rewind

Midnight in the university alumni group chat, someone suddenly posed a popular question:

If you could turn back the clock, which year would you go back to?

Tristan, the golden boy of our department who had vanished from the face of the earth five years ago, suddenly popped up:

Our junior year, during that freezing winter.

A few seconds later, another message followed:

"And back to Eleanor Sinclair's side."

The group chat exploded instantly.

Back at Amberley University, they had been the golden couple everyone whispered about: the untouchable, ethereal beauty and the dazzling star athlete. Their love had been wild, passionate, and loud.

Unfortunately, it had ended in heartbreak when he moved abroad.

To this day, everyone in that chat was absolutely certain Eleanor still loved him.

Myself included.

I turned my head to look at Eleanor, who was fast asleep beside me. The once unattainable goddess of our campus was now my wife.

She was quiet, attentive, perfect in every duty of marriage, and she did not love me.

In my past life, I had slowly drowned in depression trying to warm this frozen stone of a woman, dying with the bitter belief that her heart belonged entirely to Tristan.

Having been given a second chance at life, I decided I was done playing the fool.

I quietly slipped out of bed, placed the signed divorce papers on the nightstand, and rolled my suitcase toward the bedroom door.

Suddenly, a pair of burning-hot hands wrapped around my waist from behind.

She held me with a desperate, crushing strength. Her tears scalded my collarbone, and her voice was a terrifying, ragged whisper.

"Baby, where are you going? Why are you divorcing me?"

"Please, don't leave me, okay?"

"Eleanor, are you having a nightmare?" I asked softly.

Eleanor's voice changed instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. The raw, ragged desperation vanished, replaced immediately by her usual frigid composure.

Her grip on my waist loosened, her hands retreating as if she had touched a hot stove.

I turned around to see her back facing me, her shoulder blades tense and rigid.

The warm glow of the bedside lamp caught the side of her face. She quickly swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, erasing any trace of wetness.

"It was just sleep paralysis. I wasn't fully awake."

"I'm sorry for disturbing you."

She leaned down to pick up the divorce papers she had crumpled in her grip. Flattening the creases with slow, deliberate care, she spoke in her usual business-like tone.

She folded the paper once, then twice, then three times, before tossing it with perfect precision into the wastebasket by the bed.

The movement was clean and cold, as if she were throwing away a used tissue rather than our marriage.

"The Sinclair family cannot afford this kind of public embarrassment."

"And we do not have a history of divorce."

"If you're feeling restless, go out and spend some money tomorrow."

Leaving me with those flat, empty words, she turned and walked into the bathroom. The lock clicked shut.

Soon, the sound of rushing water filled the room.

I stood there in the dark, the spot on my collarbone where her tears had fallen now completely cold.

She had been exactly like this in our past life.

Occasionally, she would lose control in the dead of night, only to act as if nothing had happened the next morning, masking everything under an impenetrable layer of dignity and poise.

For five years, I had stupidly let myself be moved by those rare moments of midnight vulnerability.

My phone screen lit up in the darkness.

There was a new message in the alumni chat.

I swiped it open. Tristan had posted a photo: a yellowed, worn movie ticket stub from a classic romance film that had played during our junior year.

He had captioned it:

"Some memories remain warm, even after five freezing winters."

The replies rolled in immediately.

"You still kept that, Tristan? My heart breaks for you."

"Some people are just impossible to forget."

"@Tristan, you deserve so much better."

I exited the chat, leaning down to gather my coat from the floor.

As I did, my hand brushed against the academic journal Eleanor always kept on her nightstand. I knocked it slightly out of place, and something slipped out from the pages, landing softly on the carpet.

I picked it up.

It was a custom leather bookmark with gilded edges.

It shared the exact same design, the exact same font, and the exact same layout as the movie ticket stub Tristan had just posted.

They were a matching set.

The shower stopped.

The bathroom door opened.

Eleanor walked out, wrapping her robe tighter around herself. Seeing me kneeling on the floor with the bookmark in my hand, she paused for a fraction of a second.

"It was a promotional gift from the publisher," she said, her voice as flat as if she were explaining a shipping invoice.

I nodded, slipped the bookmark back into the journal, and stood up.

No demands for explanations. No accusations.

I didn't even look at her a second time.

I grabbed my duffel bag and began packing my toiletries: my toothbrush, my face wash, and the bottle of lotion that was nearly empty.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Going to my parents' place."

"At three in the morning?"

"Yes."

She fell silent for a few seconds.

"Leave the bag. I'll have the driver take you."

"No need."

I pushed open the bedroom door and walked down to the foyer.

The butler was already waiting there, holding a black umbrella and a heavy camel hair coat.

"Sir," he said politely, "Madame instructed me to ensure you don't catch a cold. It would harm the public image of the Sinclair family's marital harmony."

I looked at the coat.

In my past life, she had done this too.

She would never chase after me, and she would never offer an explanation. But she would always make sure someone handed me an umbrella, a coat, or a cup of warm water at just the right temperature.

It was a cruel trick that made you feel cared for, while simultaneously making you realize that the care had absolutely nothing to do with you as a person.

She only cared about protecting the pristine title of "her husband."

I walked past the butler, opened the heavy front door, and let the biting winter wind hit my face.

My phone vibrated again.

It was a friend request on WeChat.

The avatar was a silhouette of Tristan's profile.

The invitation message read: "It's been five years. I just wanted to ask how she's doing. Please don't take it the wrong way, okay?"

I stared at the words for three seconds.

Then, I tapped accept.

Tristan chose a quiet coffee shop tucked away in an alley near our old campus.

He was sitting by the window wearing a cream knit sweater, his hair casually styled, looking noticeably thinner than he had in college.

"Long time no see," he said, rising to offer me a warm, gentle hug.

He smelled faintly of cedarwood.

I sat down, declining to order anything.

"To be honest, I hesitated for a long time before reaching out to you," Tristan said, keeping his eyes down as he stirred his latte, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic.

He pulled a yellowed document from his bag and slid it across the table.

It was a photocopy of an old visa application from five years ago.

"Eleanor kept this safe for me all this time," he said, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "I left in such a hurry back then, I didn't have time to gather my things. I've wanted to get it back for years, but I was so afraid of disrupting your lives."

I glanced at the photocopy.

Eleanor's name was nowhere on it.

"She kept a photocopy of your visa," I said flatly. "And?"

"Nothing, I just..." Tristan shook his head quickly, his eyes instantly brimming with tears. "I just thought you should hear this."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and played an audio clip.

The quality was poor, sounding as if it had been recorded through a heavy door.

Eleanor's voice came through, sounding exhausted.

"Don't push him. I'll handle whatever consequences come of this."

And then it cut off.

There was no context, no hint of who she was speaking to or who she was talking about.

Tristan paused the recording, looking up at me with wet, pleading eyes.

"I ran into some trouble when I was abroad, and she... she helped me so much. I didn't mean to come between you, I just..."

I picked up the untouched glass of ice water in front of me and slowly poured it into the potted fern sitting on our table.

A few drops splashed onto the sleeve of his white sweater.

"Tristan," I said, standing up. "Cut the tragic hero act."

"If you have something to say, say it. Stop playing these pathetic games."

"If you want Eleanor, you should be talking to her, not me."

He froze, his lips parting in shock.

Without waiting for a response, I grabbed my bag and walked out.

The moment I pushed through the glass door of the cafe, a sleek black luxury sedan pulled up smoothly to the curb.

A bodyguard in a tailored suit stepped out, holding an umbrella. He bypassed me completely, walking straight up to Tristan and bowing slightly.

"Mr. Tristan, Madame requests your presence in the car."

I looked back.

The transition on Tristan's face from utter shock to pure triumph took less than half a second.

He scrambled to gather his things and practically ran to follow the guard.

The rear window of the luxury sedan remained rolled up. The heavy tint made it impossible to see inside.

But I knew Eleanor was sitting in the back seat.

The car glided away.

I stood there on the pavement as a cold, biting rain began to fall, soaking through my clothes.

By seven that evening, the alumni group chat had descended into absolute chaos.

One of Tristan's friends had posted a blurry, secretly taken photo of Tristan leaning in to enter the luxury sedan. The license plate was fully visible.

Tristan replied almost instantly: "Guys, please don't share this. Her husband will be heartbroken if he sees it. I only wanted to see her from a distance."

The chat went wild.

"Tristan, stop hurting yourself for her."

"Honestly, some people are just taking up a spot they don't deserve. It's frustrating to watch."

"@Tristan, you deserve to be cherished."

I typed out a reply.

My finger hovered over the send button for three seconds before I deleted every single word.

Then, someone else chimed in:

"Please, just leave Tristan alone. He only recently recovered from severe depression. Don't trigger him."

The screen kept scrolling with endless vitriol.

"Some people really love bullying the gentle ones."

"Tristan only went abroad back then to let them be happy together."

I closed the app.

I popped open my phone's SIM tray, pulled out the card, snapped it clean in half, and dropped it into a trash can by the street.

Then, I walked into a print shop, printed out a fresh copy of the divorce agreement, signed my name, and booked a same-day courier.

The destination: Eleanor's private estate.

Less than twenty minutes after the delivery was marked as signed, my phone rang. It was the bank.

"Mr. Sinclair, this is your private account manager. We regret to inform you that all secondary cards under your account have been suspended by the primary cardholder. If you have any questions, please contact..."

I hung up.

I opened my wallet. Inside were three fifty-dollar bills and a few stray coins.

This was all the money I had in the world.

I hadn't worked a single day since we got married. Eleanor had always told me, "You don't need to work. We have everything you could ever want."

In my past life, I had believed her.

I had believed her for five years, until I ended up having to ask her assistant for household funds just to buy a box of stomach medicine.

I dragged my suitcase through the cold streets for hours before finding a run-down motel on the west side of the city.

The front desk clerk quoted me eighty dollars a night, no breakfast included.

I paid for two nights, leaving myself with seventy dollars.

My room was on the third floor, with a window that faced a blank concrete wall. The building's heating hadn't been turned on yet, and the sheets felt damp and freezing to the touch.

Just as I set my suitcase down, there was a knock at the door.

A motel employee stood there holding an elegantly wrapped thermal delivery box, wearing a smile that was entirely too bright.

"Hello, sir! This is part of our motel's new VIP welcome program. It's a complimentary bowl of stomach-soothing porridge. Congratulations on winning!"

I glanced at the gold-embossed logo on the box.

The Golden Crane.

It was an exclusive, reservation-only restaurant on the east side of the city that required a three-week waiting list.

Inside was sugar-free date and longan porridge.

Eleanor absolutely loathed porridge.

But Tristan loved it. I had no desire to unravel the mystery of why this was showing up at my door.

"No, thank you. I don't want it."

"But sir, it's completely free"

I shut the door in his face.

The employee left the box on the floor outside. I opened the door again, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash chute down the hall.

My stomach had been burning since the afternoon.

I had left the house in such a rush that morning that I'd only had half a glass of cold water all day.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, curling inward to wait out the sharp, twisting pain.

It didn't stop. It only grew worse, feeling as though a cold hand was slowly wringing my organs.

I grabbed my keycard and went downstairs, walking to the convenience store at the corner.

The pain relievers were on the bottom shelf.

Just as I reached for them, someone rounded the corner of the aisle so fast they nearly ran me over.

It was Penny, Eleanor's personal assistant.

She was dripping with sweat, panting heavily as if she had just sprinted across several blocks, clutching a prescription box of stomach medication in her hand.

"Mr. Sinclair," she stammered, trying desperately to sound casual. "What a coincidence! I was just passing by. This medicine is incredibly effective for stomach pain. I use it all the time, so I thought I'd just buy some for..."

"Penny," I said quietly.

She stopped talking.

I looked at the box in her hand.

It was an imported, high-strength prescription drug specifically for stress-induced gastritis. There was absolutely no way a common convenience store carried it.

"Did she send you?"

Penny's eyes darted away, her lips trembling.

I reached out and knocked the box clean out of her hand.

The plastic packaging hit the linoleum floor with a sharp crack, the pills spilling out and rolling under the shelves.

"Go back and tell her," I said, "to keep her cheap pity to herself. If she actually cares, she can start by signing the papers."

Penny scrambled onto her knees to gather the loose pills, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pick them up.

Only when I had paid for my items and turned to leave did she catch up to me, pressing a heavy, gold-foiled invitation into my hands.

"Mr. Sinclair, Madame insisted I deliver this to you personally."

"Tomorrow is the university's centennial gala. Madame said that for the sake of the company's stock stability, you must attend as her husband."

I took the invitation.

The cover was stamped with the Amberley University crest and a small line of print: Reserved VIP Seating Mrs. Eleanor Sinclair and Partner.

My stomach flared with another wave of sharp pain.

The alumni chat had been muted on my end, but the whispers still found a way to reach me.

Tristan had posted a new set of photos.

Standing in front of a dressing room mirror, he was wearing a tailored midnight-blue suit, looking back over his shoulder with a sharp, elegant jawline.

The caption read: "Even if I'm only a supporting actor tonight, I want to look my best for an old friend."

Apparently, the comment section was filled with praise and broken hearts.

I chose a fitted black velvet shirt from my bag.

It was the most daring piece in my wardrobe, tailored perfectly to hug my waist.

In my past life, I had never dared to wear anything like this. Eleanor had once told me, "You're too thin. Fitted clothes make you look fragile and unstable."

Tonight, I didn't care.

The gala was held in the university's historic Grand Hall.

The crystal chandeliers were blindingly bright, casting a warm glow over the sea of expensive dresses and sharp suits.

I walked in alone.

Eyes fell on me from every corner of the room, carrying a mix of cold calculation, muffled snickers, and blatant amusement.

I hadn't walked ten paces before Tristan stepped out from the crowd.

Flanked by a group of seven or eight loyal followers, he paused when he saw me, then slowly walked over.

"Oliver," he said, his voice so soft and delicate it sounded as if he were trying not to scare a wild animal. "I'm so sorry. If my being here makes things awkward for you... I can leave right now. Really."

He lowered his head slightly as he spoke, pulling his shoulders inward to look as small and yielding as possible.

The surrounding crowd instantly looked at him with profound pityand shot me looks of pure disgust.

I ignored him, reaching out to take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.

Just then, a wave of hushed murmurs swept through the entrance.

Eleanor walked in, surrounded by several members of the university's board of directors. She was wearing a charcoal-grey power suit, her gold cufflinks catching the light.

Her eyes swept across the room.

They lingered briefly on Tristan, then on the crowd surrounding him, and finally on me.

Without a single change in her expression, she averted her gaze and walked straight toward the VIP stage.

It was the look she would give a total stranger.

One of the women standing next to Tristan suddenly spoke up, her voice sharp and loud enough to carry. "Oh, look, the house husband is here. All by himself? Did Eleanor leave you behind?"

It was Gemma, a woman who had been notoriously obsessed with Tristan since our college days.

I didn't answer.

Taking my silence as permission, she stepped closer with her wine glass in hand. As she tried to brush past me, her elbow suddenly lunged sideways.

She didn't hit me.

Instead, she slammed hard into the glass champagne tower beside us.

With a deafening crash, the delicate glass shattered, cascading down in a violent wave of alcohol.

The freezing champagne drenched me from head to toe. My black velvet shirt was instantly soaked, clinging heavily to my skin.

The hall fell dead silent for a second, followed by a wave of poorly suppressed laughter.

"Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry!" Gemma cried out with theatrical horror, though the corners of her mouth were twitching with amusement.

More people began to crowd around us.

"Weren't you the one who forced Tristan to go abroad five years ago?"

"He spent five miserable years alone in a foreign country because of you. Doesn't your conscience bother you at all?"

"Say something! Apologize to him in front of everyone! Get on your knees and apologize!"

Tristan stood just outside the circle, his hands covering his mouth, looking entirely innocent, as if he had no idea how things had escalated to this point.

I took a step back, my spine hitting a cold marble pillar.

Champagne was dripping from my hem, pooling inside my shoes.

The lights above felt entirely too bright.

I reached slowly into my small leather clutch and pulled out a small, grey device.

It was an old voice recorder, its edges worn white from years of handling.

In my past life, I had never found the courage to use it. But in this life, it was more than enough.

I looked up, staring past the angry, mocking faces in front of me, and locked eyes with Eleanor, who was still being toasted by the board members in the distance.

She set her glass down, apparently noticing the commotion, and turned her head.

Our eyes met.

I turned around, took the audio cable dangling from the standing microphone next to the pillar, and plugged it directly into the recorder.

"Do you all really think Tristan chose to sacrifice himself and that I was the one who forced him out? Well, you might want to listen closely to what actually happened."