Make it work.
Only, well, he built it without me.
The realization hits like a slow, sinking blade.
All those nights.
All those plans.
All those promises whispered into the dark like they were unbreakable.
And he came here.
To this land.
To this life.
And made it happen.
Without me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the ache spreading through it.
“Don’t cry,” I murmur. “Not now. Not here.”
But my eyes burn anyway.
Because I can see it.
See us in it.
Me in that kitchen, barefoot and laughing, burning something while he leans against the counter pretending not to smile.
Him coming in from the fields, dusty and tired, dropping a kiss on my head like it’s second nature.
Us on that porch, watching storms roll in over the hills, his hand wrapped around mine like it belongs there.
A life.
A whole damn life.
That we almost had.
My throat tightens.
And then something else hits me.
Harder.
Colder.
Because if this is the house we planned together?
If he built this from those late-night conversations?
Then he didn’t forget.
He didn’t move on clean.
