Saving My Younger Self From The Man I Loved

I walked up to them with a heavy wooden club in my hand, right as Alexander Knight and the younger Eliza Thorne were about to share a private moment. “If you dare take her out again, I will break your leg.” “Excuse me, who the hell are you?” They both turned simultaneously, Alex’s arm instinctively shooting out to shield Eliza. The memory of that protective gesture—a gesture he would repeat countless times in our life together—flickered violently through my mind. The club was trembling slightly in my grip, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “Me? I’m Eliza Thorne, eight years from now.”

Alex laughed. It was that familiar, condescending chuckle I knew so well. “You’re crazy.” He reached for his phone to call 911. But Eliza’s hand shot out, pressing his down. She peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with a hesitant curiosity. “Eight years from now?” I looked at the girl standing before me, twenty years old, her eyes bright enough to hold starlight, every strand of her hair practically humming with life. Of course, without a closer look, she wouldn’t recognize the shell of a woman who stood before her—the 28-year-old version. A woman whose eyes were dull and lifeless, whose body was soft and out of shape from pregnancy and childbirth, and who reeked of exhaustion and resentment. “The scar on your knee? You got that falling off your bike trying to grab an ice cream cone when you were seven. Your journal is hidden beneath the mattress in your bedroom. And you always use your left hand to push the front door open when you come in.” I spoke slowly and clearly, each word a cold, hard fact. Alex glanced from her to me, then back to her, pulling her close to his side. “Liz, honey, is this some crazy relative of yours? Let’s just go. Don’t pay her any attention.” But Eliza’s feet were rooted to the pavement. She shook off Alex’s hand and took a step toward me, beginning a detailed examination of my face, searching my eyes. Eight years can change a lot, but some things time can’t erase: the curve of the brow bone, that tiny, almost invisible scar on the lower lip, the faint mole at the corner of the left eye. None of it had changed. Her breathing hitched. “Are you really me, eight years from now?” “No way, Liz, you actually believe her? She’s clearly a scammer.” Alex looked utterly exasperated, reaching out to pull her away again. “We are calling the police right now.” I looked at Alexander Knight, this still-green man who would instinctively protect me, and forced a smile. “Alex, you saved up three months’ worth of pocket money to buy the ring. It’s sitting right now in your left pant pocket, and you planned to give it to her tonight, didn’t you?” The hand he was using to pull the twenty-year-old version of me away froze, then unconsciously, and with utter disbelief, reached to cover his pocket. The next second, he looked at my hand and challenged me. “If you’re the Liz from eight years in the future, then why aren’t you wearing a ring?” “Maybe because, later on, we never actually stayed together?” I countered, staring him down. “We will.” Alex’s denial was immediate and resolute. He squeezed Eliza’s hand tightly. “I love Liz. I will only ever want her for the rest of my life, and she feels the same way. We will be together, we’ll get married, we’ll have a kid, and we’ll live happily ever after.” Twenty-two-year-old Alex Knight: his love was hot, bright, and utterly blind, convinced of a future paved in gold. And he was right. We did love each other. We did walk down the aisle. We did have a child. As for the happily ever after? I ran a thumb over my left ring finger. Now, there was only a pale scar. A scar I got in the second year of our marriage, when Alex scratched me with the very ring he had given me. Our daughter, Maya, liked the ring—an eight-year-old style that had long been discontinued. So, he came to demand it from me for her. He’d said then, “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Maya have it?” I refused. He tried to grab it, and in the struggle, he tore the sharp edge across my finger. “Who is Maya?” I asked, looking at the young Eliza, whose hand was still tightly held by Alex, their bond already palpable. “Maya is the woman who will eventually sleep in your marital bed, wear your wedding ring, and call me a crazy bitch.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “That’s impossible.” I thought so too. Alex was obsessed with me. I was the center of his universe. He was terrified of me ever feeling wronged. How could he possibly fall in love with someone else? So, when I first saw the cute little bunny charm dangling from the rearview mirror of his car, I didn’t question it. I assumed it was a new prototype from his design studio. Twenty-nine-year-old Alex had opened an independent design studio, specializing in lifestyle and artistic products. He was constantly busy with new product development, production, and networking events. My life, meanwhile, was consumed by our infant daughter—a relentless cycle of formula, diapers, and screaming fits. My sleep was fragmented, and the thought of finding time to look in the mirror felt like a luxury. But trust was the bedrock of our relationship. I trusted him as I trusted myself. Until later, when I reached into the narrow gap between the passenger seat and the center console and felt a long strand of auburn hair. I pinched the strand, holding it up in the gloom of the underground parking garage. “Whose is this?” He barely glanced at it, not a single muscle in his face twitching. “Oh, I gave Summer a ride home today. It must be hers.” “Who is Summer?” Alex slapped his forehead, feigning annoyance at his own forgetfulness. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new junior assistant. Her name is Summer.” I silently dropped the hair out the window. The next day, I made an effort to get myself ready, then took our daughter to his studio. In the office, a young, pretty girl was leaning over the computer screen, debating the curve of a certain design line with Alex. As she spoke, her auburn hair would occasionally brush against his cheek. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The two of them sprang apart as if electrocuted. Alex awkwardly tugged at his tie. “What are you doing here?” I shifted our daughter in my arms. “You haven’t been home for a few days. We missed you, so we came to visit.” Alex came over and took Maya from me, a look of guilt washing over his face. “That’s my fault. I’ve been swamped. As soon as this new collection launches, I promise I’ll make it up to you both.” I glanced at the computer screen. It displayed two stylized human figures. “What’s the name of this collection?” “A Lifetime Too Late.” The girl answered brightly. I looked at the vibrant, spirited girl. “You must be Summer. Did you just graduate from college?” “I’m twenty.” Alex chimed in casually, “Summer looks exactly like you did when you were twenty.” In some quiet corner of my heart, something went ping. The sound of ice cracking—the first, impossibly fine line in a frozen expanse. The twenty-year-old Eliza in front of me asked, “What happened after that?” I rubbed the small of my back. Since the birth of our daughter, it was a constant, dull ache. I slowly walked over and sat on a nearby bench. The wind swept between the three of us, seemingly carrying the heavy burden of those eight years. After that? After that came countless nights of self-doubt. I blamed the grind of motherhood, believing that I had become too suspicious, too unlovable. I tried not to check his phone for text messages, I stopped questioning his late nights. I desperately tried to make myself attractive again. Until the day I brought our daughter home a day early from the hospital—she’d been running a high fever—and found them, naked, in our bed. Clutching my daughter, who was asleep from the medication, my arm went stiff and a cold chill ran up my spine. I pushed open the door to the nursery and gently settled Maya into her crib. Turning to walk toward the bedroom door, the floor felt like a swamp. Each step was too heavy to lift. Alex was habitually leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. Summer was nestled into his arms. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, before that old woman hogged all this time.” “Don’t be silly.” Alex smiled, full of sickening indulgence. “How old were you when I met her? It’s not too late. We’re starting now.” Alex turned his head, his gaze colliding with mine in the narrow crack of the door. The hand holding the cigarette paused, a minuscule, tell-tale twitch. Summer finally turned and saw me, letting out a sharp gasp, immediately grabbing the duvet to wrap around herself. I looked at the king-sized bed we had picked out together, at the scrap of lacy lingerie that wasn’t mine carelessly tossed on our wedding portrait. A thousand words condensed into one quiet question. “Why?” Thirty-year-old Alex draped his arm around Summer’s shoulder and said calmly, “Because I love her.” Before me, twenty-two-year-old Alex’s face instantly darkened. He unconsciously gripped the young Eliza’s hand tighter, his voice strained with disbelief. “That’s not right. I would never do that to you. I would never love anyone else.” See? Even his younger self couldn’t comprehend or accept the cruelty of the man he was destined to become. How could he possibly love someone else?

I went insane, lunging forward to claw at Summer, only to be shoved violently back onto the floor by Alex. He looked down at me, utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t blame Summer, Liz. I’m completely in love with her.” His eyes dropped to my left hand. “Give me the ring. Summer really likes this style.” I refused. It was the one thing I cherished, the symbol of the very beginning of our love story. He lunged for it, his fingers digging into the metal band, and yanked hard. The ring snapped and flew off, leaving behind this permanent scar on my finger. “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Summer have it?” It was true. A person’s heart really could change. It could become so cold, so ruthlessly final. In a single moment, everything we built was pulverized. The twenty-year-old Eliza broke free from Alex, rushing forward to hug me. “It must have hurt so much.” The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. My body shook uncontrollably. “It hurt, baby. It hurt so much that I became a crazy woman.” I compiled their filthy secret into short videos, added desperate captions, and posted them on every social media platform I could find. I printed out banners and hung them outside our condo complex and his studio. I clung to our marriage certificate, refusing to sign the divorce papers, hoping to forever nail Summer to a pillar of shame—a forever-unseen mistress. But in the dead of night, I would still break down and text him, demanding to know why he had betrayed me. None of it worked. Alex easily had my videos deleted and my accounts suspended. The building security guards politely, but firmly, escorted me away when I showed up with my banners. Finally, Alex looked at my hands, which were shaking from the medication I was on, his eyes filled with only deeper contempt. “Stop making a scene, Liz. All you’re doing is making me look down on you even more.” Then, he delivered the final, most devastating blow. One afternoon, while I was passed out from exhaustion and a mental breakdown, he and Summer returned and took my daughter. “Your current mental state makes you completely unfit to raise a child.” His voice was cold, flat, through the phone line. “I’m applying to the court. From now on, you can only see Maya once a month.” “Or, you can sign the divorce papers quickly, and I might consider relaxing the visitation terms. You choose.” In the end, I compromised. I signed the divorce agreement. “And after that? Why did you come here?” The day I signed the divorce papers, Alex’s studio officially launched its new collection with great fanfare: “A Lifetime Too Late.” A massive banner, bearing a romanticized quote about fated, timeless love, was plastered across the venue. At the product launch, they unveiled two giant, special edition sculptures: a fox tightly embracing a small, delicate pink bunny. Alex and Summer attended, each wearing matching fox and bunny lapel pins. Under the flashing cameras, Alex’s gaze rested softly on Summer. “I’m ten years her senior. When we met, she was in the absolute prime of her youth, and I thought my life was already set in stone,” he said to the crowd. “She always tells me, ‘A lifetime too late.’ It was that pure, passionate sentiment that struck me. She is my muse.” He put an arm around Summer. “Today is not just the launch of my new series, but the beginning of a new chapter in my life. This collection is the testament to our story. I hope everyone, after all the detours, finally finds their true love.” The room erupted in applause. And I? I was lying in a bathtub, watching the water slowly turn red. On my phone screen, I watched the thirty-year-old Alex’s face warp and rewind, settling back into the twenty-two-year-old version I now stood before. He said he would love me forever. Then, I heard a voice asking if I wanted a chance to go back. I said yes, without a second thought. I wiped a tear and looked at the speechless Alexander Knight. “That is why I’m here.” The twenty-year-old Eliza spoke softly, lifting a hand to stroke my hair with genuine sorrow. “You must be so angry.” “It’s not anger,” I heard myself say, my throat tight. “It’s just that the ache lasted too long.” The club slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground with a deafening CLANG. Tears streamed down my face simultaneously. “Changing others is too hard,” I said. “We can only try to stop the us who was rushing headlong into this.” “So, the choice is yours now. The future depends entirely on you. Do you want to try and choose a different future for yourself?” The twenty-year-old Eliza’s hand froze mid-air, beginning to tremble slightly. Twenty-two-year-old Alex suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the young Eliza by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Something must have gone wrong!” His voice was frantic, carrying the conviction of his age. “I swear, I truly love you, Liz. Only you. I’ve never even heard of a ‘Summer.’ I would never want anyone but you.” He cupped the young Eliza’s face, forcing her to look at him, his eyes blazing with an intensity and sincerity that the thirty-year-old man had long lost—only complete devotion and pleading. “Don’t listen to her, honey.” “Don’t leave me. We will have a different future. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll protect you forever. We won’t turn out like she says, absolutely not!” His vows, carried on the evening breeze, sounded both profoundly earnest and tragically fragile. But then again, he’d sounded just as resolute before. Love and neglect, deep affection and brutal betrayal, could apparently coexist in the same man. I looked down at my watch. “Eliza, you have ten minutes to think. After that, I will disappear. You might remember today as a strange event, or maybe just a blurry dream.” “But your choice, it has to be made in these ten minutes.” From far away, the indistinct noise of traffic and the city’s low hum drifted toward us, as if a parallel universe was operating as normal. Twenty-two-year-old Alex was still desperately pleading, trying to control the present with his unrestrained love. And the twenty-year-old Eliza? Her gaze was fixed on my face. She looked at the ugly scar on my ring finger, at the sheer exhaustion and despair radiating from me. Then, just as I faded from existence, she finally spoke. I opened my eyes in a hospital room.