The drive was long, but the promise of a secluded cabin by the lake kept our spirits high. We needed this. Needed to reconnect. Months of silent tension, of missed signals and unspoken words, had worn grooves into our relationship. This weekend, we vowed, was for us. No distractions. Just us.
The cabin itself was perfect. Rustic, but with modern touches. Huge windows overlooked the shimmering water, sunlight pouring into every corner. A fresh start, I thought, breathing in the scent of pine and old wood. We unpacked, made dinner, and then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the lake in hues of orange and purple, we settled onto the worn sofa, a bottle of wine between us. It was exactly what we needed.
Later that evening, I was rummaging through a bedside table drawer – looking for a pen, maybe a forgotten novel – when my fingers brushed against something. The drawer was deeper than it looked, and a small, almost invisible panel on the back wall had come slightly ajar. Curiosity, a dangerous thing, nudged me. I pulled it open further.
Carl Westcott seen with two family members. | Source: Instagram/kameronwestcott
Inside wasn’t much: just a few faded photographs, a dried rose, and a small, leather-bound journal. It felt heavy, substantial, like it held secrets. No name on the cover, just delicate, swirling embossed patterns. Someone’s forgotten treasure, I mused. I pulled it out, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and unease.
“Look what I found!” I exclaimed, holding it up. He glanced over, mildly interested. “Looks old. Probably some old occupant’s diary.”
I opened it. The paper was thick, slightly yellowed, but the ink was surprisingly vibrant. The handwriting was elegant, looping. The first entry was dated only a few months prior. “October 14th. The rain mirrors my soul tonight. Another secret rendezvous, another piece of myself left behind in your arms.”
My breath hitched. This wasn’t an ancient artifact. This was recent. My eyes scanned ahead. It was a woman’s writing. A confession. Of an affair.
“Oh,” I said, a little too loudly, then quieted. “It’s… someone’s very personal journal. About an affair.”
He leaned closer, a flicker of something in his eyes – amusement? Intrigue? “Read some more,” he urged, taking a sip of his wine. “Sounds like a real drama.”
A grayscale photo of a smiling young man | Source: Pexels
So I did. I started reading aloud, my voice hushed, almost reverent. The entries painted a vivid picture: stolen moments, desperate longing, the agony of guilt, the intoxicating pull of forbidden love. The writer described her lover in passionate detail. “His hands, strong and sure, always tracing the scar above my left hip…”
I paused. Scar above her left hip? I looked up at him. “Wow, specific detail.” He just nodded, his gaze fixed on the flickering embers in the fireplace.
I continued. The story was compelling, heartbreaking even. I found myself empathizing with this unknown woman, caught in a web of passion and deceit. She described their meetings, always in secluded places, sometimes even at a quiet rental cabin by a lake. A shiver ran down my spine. Coincidence, surely.
“He brought me that small silver locket, the one with the delicate engraving of a crescent moon. He knows how much I love the night sky.”
My heart gave a strange little lurch. A crescent moon locket. I instinctively touched the silver chain around my own neck. He had given me an identical one for our anniversary, just last year. My hand dropped. No, no. That’s impossible. I told myself. Lockets are common. Crescent moons are common.
A pregnant woman standing by the wall | Source: Pexels
But the unsettling feeling was growing. I kept reading, my voice trembling slightly now. The writer spoke of her lover’s quiet humor, his ability to make her laugh even when she was consumed by guilt. She mentioned his fondness for a particular, obscure jazz musician, one I’d only ever heard him hum.
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Maybe we shouldn’t be reading this,” he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. “It feels… intrusive.”
“No,” I insisted, my voice tight. “I need to know. It’s a story.” But it wasn’t just a story anymore. It was becoming a haunting mirror.
“We argued again tonight. That same argument about commitment, about his inability to truly leave his past behind. He said I just don’t understand how complicated things are, how much he has to lose. I slammed the door, just like I always do.”
My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t just similar. This was our argument. Our exact argument from last month, word for agonizing word. The door slam. His explanation. My head started to spin.
I stopped reading, the journal heavy in my lap. I looked at him. His face was pale, his eyes wide and fixed on mine, suddenly devoid of any casual amusement. The silence in the cabin was deafening.
“Tell me,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Tell me what this is.”
A house | Source: Flickr
He didn’t answer. He just stared, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
I flipped frantically through the last few pages. The most recent entry was dated yesterday. YESTERDAY.
“No,” I choked out. “This isn’t an old journal. This is happening now. This is someone else. And… and the man in these pages… it’s you, isn’t it?”
He finally looked away, clenching his jaw. A single tear tracked a path down his cheek. He was about to speak, to confess, I thought. The world tilted on its axis. My perfect cabin, my fresh start, was crumbling around me.
“Who is she?” I demanded, my voice rising to a frantic pitch. “WHO IS SHE? Is she here? Did you bring her here?”
He slowly shook his head, then swallowed hard. He reached out a trembling hand for the journal. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Just… let me explain.”
I snatched the journal away, clutching it to my chest like a shield. “There’s nothing to explain! It’s all here, every sordid detail! The locket, the scar, the arguments, the jazz!”
He closed his eyes, a shudder running through him. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice thick with a strange mixture of guilt and… something else. Panic? Desperation?
A stuffed teddy bear lying under a wall frame | Source: Pexels
He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked at me. His gaze was raw, unbearable. “I wrote it,” he said, the words barely audible. “Every single entry. It was me.”
My mind recoiled. “WHAT?” It was an involuntary scream. “You… you wrote a fictional diary? To what, practice cheating? To plan it?”
He shook his head, despair etched onto his face. “No,” he said, a fresh wave of tears now openly streaming down his face. “I was trying to understand. To process what I was doing. I wrote it from her perspective, the woman I was having the affair with. I needed to feel what she felt, to justify… to rationalize it all in my head. I left it here because we stayed here last weekend. She and I. I forgot it.”
The air left my lungs in a sickening whoosh. The journal wasn’t just a record of his betrayal. It was a terrifying, twisted insight into his mind. He wasn’t just unfaithful; he was analyzing his infidelity from the perspective of his mistress, using it as some kind of warped self-therapy. He had documented his lies, his double life, not just for himself, but inadvertently, for me. Every passionate word, every guilty thought, every longing, every description of him through her eyes… it wasn’t just a discovery. It was him, confessing in the most horrifying way possible.
An angry woman looking sideways | Source: Pexels
I stared at the pages, then at his tear-streaked face. He had brought me to the very cabin where he’d been with her, and had left behind his twisted confession for me to find. The silence descended again, heavier now, suffocating. There was nothing left to say. The vacation, the cabin, our relationship… everything was shattered, not by a simple affair, but by the unimaginable depths of his deception.
