Clay brought me breakfast in bed for our first anniversary — bacon, cinnamon toast, and a surprise road trip. I thought he was finally ready to move on from his past. But somewhere between the cornfields and quiet stares, I realized this trip wasn’t about me at all.
I woke to the smell of bacon — crispy, smoky, and rich — and something sweet, like cinnamon melting into warm toast.
It wrapped around me like a blanket. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
That kind of breakfast doesn’t just happen. Not on a normal Wednesday. Not without a reason.
I opened my eyes, blinking against the early sunlight filtering through the blinds. And there he was.
Clay stood at the foot of the bed, barefoot, tousled hair still messy from sleep, holding a tray in both hands.
On it: two slices of cinnamon toast stacked like golden bricks, a heap of bacon, and a single white mug — my favorite, the one with the chipped rim.
He had that rare smile, the one that barely touched his lips but warmed everything around it.
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“Happy anniversary,” he said softly and set the tray on my lap like it was something precious.
I stared at it, then at him. “You remembered?”
He gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was. It was huge.
It was our first year together. Just one year — but for me, it wasn’t just a date on the calendar. It was proof.
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Proof that we’d made it through the awkward months, the fights over nothing, the slow, careful learning of each other.
Proof that I wasn’t just someone passing through.
Clay wasn’t the type to make big gestures.
He told me early on that his last relationship broke more than just his heart.
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Since then, commitment made him nervous. Talk of the future made him quiet.
He’d never said “I love you,” not once. And I hadn’t either.
I was waiting. Maybe that was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe both.
But when he handed me that tray and sat on the edge of the bed, watching my face like he was holding his breath, I felt a lump rise in my throat.
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“I made plans,” he said, clearing his throat.
“We’re taking a road trip. Just us. Whole weekend. No phones.”
I blinked. “You planned all this?”
He nodded, eyes shining.
“You’ll love it. I promise.”
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And in that moment, with the toast still steaming and the bacon scent curling in the air, I believed him.
I wanted to. Maybe that was the start of everything.
We hit the highway by midmorning, coffee cups still warm in the holders and Clay’s favorite playlist humming through the speakers.
The sky stretched out wide and blue, clean as a new sheet.
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Iowa cornfields rolled out on both sides like golden rugs, waving slightly in the breeze.
Clay drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the rhythm to some old rock song on the dashboard.
Every few miles, he’d glance over at me, a smile pulling at his mouth.
“I’m not telling you where we’re headed,” he said for the third time.
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I laughed, leaning back into my seat. “You’re really sticking to the mystery, huh?”
He grinned. “Just wait. You’ll see. Trust me.”
We passed winding rivers, cliffs that looked like stories, and old barns with peeling paint and slanted roofs — like they were tired from standing so long.
Clay kept pointing things out.
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“Look at that barn!” he said. “The way it leans? Like it’s thinking about falling but holding on.”
I reached for my phone. “Want a picture?”
“Yeah, yeah. But get the hill behind it, too. That slope — the light is just right.”
I snapped a photo, though the angle felt off to me.
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Then we passed a small field, dotted with wildflowers. Purple and yellow patches danced gently in the wind.
I smiled and said, “That reminds me of my grandma’s garden. She had flowers like that near her porch.”
Clay’s face shifted. Not angry — just… off.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Forget the flowers. Look at the slope. Look at the light.”
I blinked. “Right… okay.”
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He turned back to the road, quiet for a while. And I sat there, unsure. My chest felt tight, like a string was pulling too hard.
It wasn’t just the flowers. It was how he said it — like I’d gotten something wrong. Like I missed the point.
Still, I told myself: He’s trying. He planned this trip. He made the playlist. He brought breakfast.
This is his version of love. Maybe it doesn’t look like mine, but it’s something.
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I looked out the window, at the miles flying by. But somewhere inside me, a small voice whispered: Why does this feel like a test I didn’t know I was taking?
By late afternoon, we pulled into a tiny gravel lot near a state park. The car tires crunched on the loose stones as Clay parked.
Tall trees lined the edge of the lot, their branches swaying gently in the wind. I rolled down my window and took in the scent of pine and damp earth.
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Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the steady rush of water — soft but clear, like nature whispering a secret.
Clay was already out of the car before I unbuckled my seatbelt. He walked ahead fast, his steps almost impatient.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “This is the best part.”
I followed, catching up as the trail curved into a shaded path. Birds chirped in the trees.
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The ground was damp and uneven, and a few rays of sunlight broke through the leaves, making little gold pools on the dirt.
We turned a corner, and then I saw it.
The waterfall wasn’t huge — maybe ten feet tall — but it was beautiful. Water tumbled over dark rocks, falling into a shallow pool below.
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Mist danced in the air, and the sunlight caught it just right, turning it silver and soft, like smoke from a dream.
Clay stood still, looking at it like it meant something more.
I stared for a moment, and a quiet memory stirred in my chest.
“I think I’ve been here before,” I said softly.
“When I was little. My parents brought us camping once. I think this was the place.”
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Clay turned to me. His face changed. The warmth in his eyes faded, like someone had flipped a switch.
“You’ve seen it before?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah, but—” I started.
He shook his head quickly and looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
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But he didn’t answer. He was already walking back toward the car.
At the motel nearby, he didn’t say a word. He dropped our bags on the floor, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
I stood there, not knowing what to say, or if I should say anything at all.
Had I ruined something?
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I stepped out quietly, heart pounding. I followed the trail again, needing to breathe. Needing space.
And then I saw it.
Carved into the bark of an old tree near the edge of the woods — a heart.
Inside it: Clay + Megan.
The world tilted.
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Megan. The name he once swore was part of the past.
Now it all made sense.
I stood at the window, my arms folded across my chest, staring out at the empty parking lot. A single moth batted its wings against the glass.
The air inside the motel room felt heavy, like it hadn’t moved in years.
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Behind me, Clay lay on the bed, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the ceiling like it had something to say.
“This wasn’t about me, was it?” I asked quietly. My voice felt small, like a pebble dropped into a deep well.
Clay didn’t answer right away. He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the stained carpet.
He looked like he was holding something in, like his chest was full of smoke and he couldn’t breathe.
“It was supposed to be for us,” he said finally. “A fresh start.”
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He rubbed his hands together, still not looking at me.
“But yeah… I came here once. With her.”
My heart sank. I didn’t need to ask who her was.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out like this,” he whispered.
“It was one of the best weekends of my life. I thought if I came back — with you — maybe I could rewrite it. Make new memories. Push the old ones out.”
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He paused, swallowed hard. “I didn’t know it would all come back so fast.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My thoughts were a mess, my feelings twisted tight like a knot I didn’t know how to undo.
“Do you still love her?” I asked. The words came out flat, almost like I was asking about the weather.
Clay’s jaw moved like he was chewing on something bitter. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Took a breath.
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“I don’t know,” he said.
“I don’t think so. But maybe… maybe I miss who I was when I was with her. That version of me felt lighter. Happier.”
That’s when it hit me. This trip — it wasn’t really for us. It was for a ghost. For someone he used to be.
And suddenly, I wasn’t angry at her. I was hurt because I wasn’t even the main character in my own love story.
“I need you here,” I said, barely louder than a whisper. “Not back there. Not with her.”
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He nodded. Still didn’t look up.
The words came before I could stop them.
“I love you.”
His head snapped up, surprised. But he didn’t say it back.
I felt tears rising. I turned, grabbed my sweater, and walked out the door.
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The air outside was cooler than I expected. But at least I could breathe.
The sky had turned a soft blue, almost lilac, by the time I reached the parking lot. The air smelled like pine and dust.
I stood there for a moment, hugging my arms to my chest. The wind tugged gently at the sleeves of my sweater.
I wiped at my eyes, even though the tears had already dried.
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My chest still felt tight, like someone had tied a rope around my heart and pulled.
Why had I said it first? Why now? The words had slipped out, heavy and real, and now they hung in the air between us — unanswered.
I was about to keep walking when I heard the door slam behind me.
“Wait!” Clay’s voice cracked like glass against the quiet.
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I turned, startled.
He ran toward me barefoot, his steps quick and clumsy over the gravel, still in his jeans and wrinkled T-shirt. He didn’t stop to grab shoes.
Didn’t care that people might be watching. His hair was a mess, and his face was flushed.
He grabbed my hand like he needed it to breathe.
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“I was stupid,” he said, out of breath.
“I thought I could cover up old pain with something new. Like if I just copied the steps, I could trick myself into moving on.”
His hand squeezed mine tighter.
“But you were right. This isn’t about her. It was never supposed to be. You’re not a replacement. You’re the real thing.”
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He swallowed, hard. “I love you, too.”
Then he pulled back a little and shouted — loud enough to echo off the side of the motel building: “I love her!”
A window creaked open. Someone peeked out with a sleepy face. A dog barked once, sharp and quick.
But Clay didn’t care. He looked right at me and said again, softer this time, “I love you.”
His forehead rested against mine, warm and steady. I closed my eyes and let myself feel it — really feel it.
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This wasn’t a story borrowed from the past. It wasn’t a ghost of a weekend with someone else.
This was ours.
Whatever ghosts we carried, they could follow if they wanted. But they would always be behind us.
Because this — this was made now.
Alive. Warm. Real.
And for the first time, I truly believed him.
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