Clay brought me breakfast in bed on our first anniversary — cinnamon toast, bacon, and a surprise road trip. I thought it meant he was finally ready to move forward. But somewhere between the cornfields and quiet silences, I realized the trip wasn’t really about me.I woke to the smell of bacon and cinnamon, warm and sweet. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming — until I saw Clay at the foot of the bed, tray in hand, that soft, rare smile on his face.“Happy anniversary,” he said, setting the tray in my lap.He remembered. It meant more than I could say. One year together — not just a date, but proof we were still choosing each other.Clay had never been the grand-gesture type. His past still lingered in shadows between us. He hadn’t said “I love you,” and neither had I.But that morning, with toast still warm and bacon crisp, he told me he’d planned a trip. “No phones. Just us.”
We hit the road by midmorning. His playlist played, coffee steamed in the cup holders, and golden cornfields rolled past. Clay grinned, keeping the destination a mystery.He pointed out old barns, sunlit hills, details that mattered to him. But when I saw wildflowers and mentioned my grandma’s garden, he brushed it off — “Forget the flowers. Look at the slope.”It stung, the way he corrected me, like I was missing something.Still, I told myself: he’s trying. This is love — his version of it.
By late afternoon, we arrived at a quiet state park. Clay led me down a trail to a small waterfall, silver and soft in the sun. I said it felt familiar, like a childhood memory. That’s when everything shifted.“You’ve seen it before?” he asked.When I nodded, his expression darkened. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”He walked away without explaining.Back at the motel, silence filled the room. Then I saw it — a heart carved into a tree: Clay + Megan.The truth landed hard. This place, this weekend — it wasn’t ours. It was a memory he was trying to rewrite.
“This wasn’t about me, was it?” I asked.He looked wrecked. “I thought if I brought you here, I could make something new. Push the old stuff out.”“Do you still love her?”“I don’t think so,” he said. “But maybe I miss who I was with her.”That’s when I knew. I wasn’t part of a new story — I was a stand-in for an old one.I need you here,” I whispered. “Not with her.”Then I said it — the words I’d been holding: “I love you.”He didn’t say it back.I walked out, the motel door closing behind me.Outside, the air was cool and clear. My chest ached with the weight of words I couldn’t take back.Then I heard him call out.lay ran to me barefoot, breathless, eyes wide.You were right,” he said. “I tried to copy the past. But this — you — are real. I love you.”Then, louder, “I love her!” shouted into the sky, to no one and everyone.And again, to me, softer: “I love you.”forehead rested on mine. I closed my eyes and finally let myself believe it.This wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t a rewrite.It was real. Ours.And it was enough.