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 leave his past behind. But somewhere between the cornfields and quiet glances, I realized this trip was never really about me.

I woke up to the smell of bacon—crispy, smoky, exactly how I love it. And something sweet: cinnamon toast, still warm.

For a second, I thought I was dreaming. That kind of breakfast doesn’t just happen, especially not on a random Wednesday.

I opened my eyes, and there he was—Clay—standing barefoot at the foot of the bed, messy hair, holding a tray with two slices of cinnamon toast, a pile of bacon, and my favorite chipped mug.

He smiled—soft, careful. The kind of smile that warms the air.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispered, setting the tray gently on my lap.

I blinked. “You remembered?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing—it was everything.

It was our first year. Just one year—but for me, it meant survival. It meant we’d made it through the awkward starts, the silent fights, the cautious learning of who we were together. It meant I wasn’t temporary.

Clay was never the grand-gesture type. Early on, he told me his last relationship broke more than his heart. Since then, commitment made him uneasy. He never said “I love you.” Neither did I.

But this? This felt like something.

Then he said, “I made plans. Road trip. Just us. No phones. Whole weekend.”

I smiled. “You planned all this?”

He nodded. “You’ll love it.”

And I wanted to believe him. I really did.

By midmorning, we were on the road, coffee cups in hand, his favorite playlist humming through the speakers. The sky stretched wide and clear over endless Iowa cornfields. Every few minutes, Clay would glance over at me, grinning.

“I’m not telling you where we’re going,” he teased.

I laughed. “You’re sticking to the mystery, huh?”

He nodded. “Trust me.”

We passed rivers, old barns leaning like they were tired, and hills painted gold by the sun. He kept pointing things out: “Look at that barn! Look how it leans like it’s thinking about falling.”

I snapped a photo when he asked, but something felt…off.

We passed wildflowers swaying in the breeze. I smiled. “Those remind me of my grandma’s garden.”

His face shifted. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, sharper than I expected. “Forget the flowers. Look at the slope. The light.”

I froze, thrown off by the edge in his voice. But I brushed it off. He was trying, right? The breakfast, the playlist, the trip—this was his way of showing love. I told myself that.

But deep down, something tightened.

We reached a small state park by late afternoon. I could hear water rushing somewhere beyond the trees. Clay was already ahead of me on the trail, calling over his shoulder: “Come on! This is the best part!”

I followed. The trees parted, and there it was—a waterfall. Small, but beautiful. Mist rose into the air, glowing in the sunlight.

I felt something stir. “I think I’ve been here before,” I said softly. “When I was a kid. My parents brought us camping here.”

Clay’s face changed. The light in his eyes dimmed.

“You’ve seen it before?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, but—”

He cut me off, shaking his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned and started walking back.

At the motel, he barely spoke. Dropped the bags, sat on the bed, staring at the floor. I stood frozen, not sure what I’d done wrong.

I stepped back outside, needing air, needing space—and that’s when I saw it.

Carved into a tree: a heart.

Inside it: Clay + Megan.

The name hit me like cold water. Megan. The girl he once swore was in the past.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

Back in the motel, I stood by the window. The air felt thick, unmoving.

“This wasn’t about me, was it?” I asked quietly.

Clay didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“It was supposed to be for us,” he murmured. “A fresh start.”

His voice cracked. “I came here once—with her. It was one of the best weekends of my life. I thought if I came back—with you—I could overwrite it. Make new memories. Push the old ones out.”

I swallowed hard, my heart sinking.

“Do you still love her?” I asked.

He looked pained. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe I just miss who I was back then—before everything fell apart.”

And I realized: this trip wasn’t about building something new. It was about chasing ghosts.

I whispered, “I need you here. Not back there. Not with her.”

He nodded but kept his eyes down.

And then the words tumbled out—words I’d never planned to say first:

“I love you.”

He looked up, startled. But he didn’t say it back.

Tears burned my eyes. I grabbed my sweater and stepped outside. The air was cool, the sky soft and blue. I stood there, breathing deep, hugging myself.

Why had I said it first? Why now?

And then—behind me—the motel door slammed.

“Wait!” Clay’s voice cracked.

I turned, startled, as he ran barefoot across the gravel, his face flushed, his breath short. He grabbed my hand like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I was stupid,” he gasped. “I thought I could fix the past by copying it. But you’re not a replacement. You’re real. This is real.”

His grip tightened. “I love you too.”

And then—without warning—he threw his head back and shouted it out loud: “I love her!”

I flinched. But then he added, quieter, eyes locked on mine: “I love you.”

I closed my eyes as his forehead rested against mine. His warmth, his breath, everything steady now.

This wasn’t borrowed. This wasn’t haunted.

This was ours.

And for the first time, I actually believed it.