Clay brought me breakfast in bed on our first anniversary — cinnamon toast, bacon, and a surprise road trip.
I thought this meant he was finally ready to move forward. But somewhere between cornfields and silence,
I realized the trip wasn’t really about me. The truth hit hard the moment I stepped out of the car.
We drove with no clear destination, his smile hiding something deeper. When I spoke of wildflowers,
he dismissed me — focused instead on a slope that only mattered to him. His past was still tangled in our present,
and this trip was his way of trying to rewrite old stories. I was just a passenger in someone else’s memory.
At a quiet waterfall, everything changed. I saw the carved heart on a tree — Clay’s and Megan’s names.
“This wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, his voice breaking. He confessed he wasn’t over her;
I was only filling the space she once held. The realization crushed me, but I still whispered the words I’d held back: “I love you.”
He didn’t say it back — not at first. I walked away, the weight of his silence heavy on my chest.
Then, barefoot and breathless, he called me back, confessing the truth: “I love you. You’re real.” His forehead against mine, I finally
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