Nigel flicked through the photo album again as his soon-to-be-wife, Ellen, got ready across the road. The woman in the hotel and the woman in the soft vinyl were not the same person.

Ellen was a good person. She was sweet and devoted and she loved him. But she wasn’t Joan. Nigel fingered the wings of his untied bowtie and looked up at his labcoat hanging from the doorway.

Nigel threw the album on the bed behind him and rubbed his head firmly with his worn fingers, his ever-balding head moving with each stroke.
Which is when he noticed that a note had fallen out of the album as he was staring in longing at the pictures, too preoccupied to hear the sound of paper skidding lightly over the carpet.
And it had his name on it. Nigel,

I need you to know that I never meant to leave you, but meet me three years from the 5th May in our spot and I’ll tell you.

Nigel looked at the calendar. It was the 5th.