Chapter 1
One day, I randomly logged into Facebook, and the system suggested a woman I'd never seen before.
Her account ended with 6319—just one digit away from my husband's, which was 6320.
Driven by curiosity, I clicked into her relationship profile.
To my utter disbelief, the other person linked to her was my husband, Rupert. I'd been married to him for eighteen years, but their connection had lasted 7,305 days.
That was a full twenty years—two years longer than my entire marriage to him.
As I hovered my mouse over the Facebook icon, my fingers felt weirdly stiff—like they were hesitating before my brain even caught up.
This was the account I'd used from high school all the way through college. After I started working, got married, and had kids, WhatsApp took over my daily chats.
That old Facebook account was just like a forgotten sweater shoved in the back of my closet, covered in dust along with all those teenage feelings I hadn't thought about in years.
If the organizer of our high school reunion hadn't posted on Instagram a few days ago, asking, "Can't find anyone. Does anyone still have their old Facebook account?" I probably wouldn't have remembered it for the rest of my life.
The moment the login screen popped up, it felt like I'd been thrown straight back to the days of dial-up internet.
I tried typing in the password I remembered. First time, wrong. Second time, still wrong. Third time, I finally got the "Password Correct" message.
After logging in, the whole interface felt deserted. Most of my friends' avatars were just gray silhouettes, and the notes next to their names were frozen in time—stuff like "Basketball Team—Jordan Robertson."
Some names didn't even ring a bell anymore, while some faces were so clear it was like I'd just seen them yesterday, but honestly, there was no real reason to reconnect.
I kept scrolling with no real purpose, and a soft wave of nostalgia hit me. Turns out, all those people and moments I thought would stick with me forever had quietly faded away with the years.
Just as I was about to close the window, a little red bubble popped up in the top right corner, reading "People You May Know."
Most of the suggestions were based on things like "3 mutual friends" or "You were in the same group chat." I wasn't really planning to check them out, but my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I'd clicked in.
The first profile in the list had a landscape photo as its avatar—a cobblestone path under a clear blue sky. It looked kind of familiar, but I just couldn't place where I'd seen it before.
I kept scrolling, and then my eyes suddenly locked onto one particular account.
The username was "Scarlet White," and the profile picture was a lone pine tree against a backdrop of misty mountains.
And her Facebook ID? The last four digits were 6319.
My heart clenched tight, like an invisible hand had just grabbed it.
6319—those four digits were so familiar to me.
My husband Rupert Booth's Facebook ID ended with 6320.
I held my breath and clicked into Scarlet's profile. There were no posts on her timeline, just a single signature: [March, meeting Scarlet.]
Below the signature was a relationship profile icon, glowing red, as if it were silently announcing something.
My hands were trembling as I clicked into their couple's page. Those few seconds it took to load felt like an eternity.
The moment the page appeared, my vision went dark. I nearly slipped right off my chair.
The other half of the couple's page showed a profile picture with a side profile I knew by heart. It was Rupert.
His handle was still "Rupert," and the profile photo was the one we took at the beach the year we got married. He wore a white shirt, his smile gentle, and the warmth in his eyes once made me believe he was the only light in my world.
The couple's page showed they'd been together for 7,305 days.
I did the math. 7,305 days, that was exactly twenty years.
We'd only been married for eighteen years.
There weren't any cheesy lovey-dovey posts in their couple's space—just a handful of scattered updates, like pages from a diary they'd deliberately kept hidden. Every entry was filled with a wordless intimacy I couldn't begin to understand.
The first post was from twenty years ago, on March 10th, and it was from Scarlet. [Arrived as promised—the blossoms in the courtyard are blooming.]
Below it was a photo—blossoms climbing over a low wall, a bamboo chair tucked into the corner, sunlight spilling over it so warmly that it almost hurt to look at.
The second post was Rupert's reply, also from the same day. [Coffee's ready. Waiting for you.]
No extra words, just a quiet, unspoken bond between them that needed no explanation.
As I scrolled down their timeline, it felt like my heart was being dunked in ice water, growing colder with every post.
Every year, right around March 10th, they'd always post something like this.
[The snow came late this year. The courtyard roof is dusted with a thin layer, like someone sprinkled icing sugar over it—Scarlet, March 12th, ten years ago.]