Our First Anniversary — and His Ghost
I woke up to the smell of bacon.
Crispy, smoky, rich. And something sweet too — cinnamon toast, just warm enough to melt the sugar into butter.
For a second, I thought I was dreaming.
Because this kind of breakfast doesn’t just happen. Not on a regular Wednesday. Not without a reason.
I blinked against the soft morning light coming through the blinds, and that’s when I saw him.
Clay was standing at the foot of the bed, barefoot, hair messy, eyes sleepy but shining. He was holding a tray with both hands like it was something fragile and special.
On the tray were two golden pieces of cinnamon toast stacked neatly, a little mountain of bacon, and a white mug — my favorite mug, the one with the chipped rim and tiny flowers.
He gave me a soft smile, the kind that barely curled his lips but somehow still made the whole room feel warmer.
“Happy anniversary,” he said quietly, placing the tray gently on my lap like he didn’t want to break the moment.
I stared at the tray, then at him. “You remembered?”
Clay shrugged like it was no big deal. But it was. To me, it was huge.
It was our first year together. One full year of figuring each other out, learning how to love through the mess — the fights, the silence, the laughter. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been real.
He wasn’t the kind of guy to do grand romantic things. Clay didn’t like to talk about feelings. He once told me his last relationship left him broken in places he still hadn’t figured out how to fix.
He never said “I love you.” I hadn’t either. I was waiting — maybe out of pride, or fear, or maybe because I just didn’t want to say it first.
But when he gave me that tray and sat on the edge of the bed, watching my reaction like it meant something to him, I felt a lump in my throat.
“I made plans,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “We’re taking a road trip. Just us. Whole weekend. No phones.”
My eyes widened. “You planned this?”
He nodded, and his eyes lit up. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
In that moment — with warm cinnamon toast in my lap, and his nervous excitement filling the room — I believed him. I wanted to believe this was the beginning of something bigger.
We hit the road by midmorning, coffee cups steaming in the holders and Clay’s favorite playlist humming low through the car speakers.
The sky above us stretched wide and blue, not a single cloud in sight. Endless fields of corn rolled by, swaying like golden waves on both sides of the highway.
Clay drove with one hand on the steering wheel, tapping the dashboard to the beat of an old rock song. Every few minutes, he’d sneak a glance at me, smiling to himself.
“I’m still not telling you where we’re going,” he said for the third time.
I laughed, leaning back into my seat. “You’re really committed to this whole surprise thing, huh?”
He chuckled. “Just wait. You’ll see. Trust me.”
We passed winding rivers, lonely barns with peeling paint, and hills that looked like they were pulled from a storybook.
At one point, Clay pointed out a leaning barn.
“Look at that!” he said. “That old barn — it’s like it’s trying to fall but keeps holding on.”
I reached for my phone. “Want a picture?”
“Yeah, yeah. But get the hill behind it too. The light is just right right now.”
I snapped a photo but felt something shift.
A little while later, we passed a small field covered in wildflowers. Purple and yellow blooms danced softly in the breeze.
I smiled. “That reminds me of my grandma’s garden. She had flowers just like that near her porch.”
Clay’s face changed. Not angry — but stiff. Cold, almost.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said sharply. “Forget the flowers. Look at the slope. Look at the light.”
I blinked. “Right… okay.”
He turned back to the road, silent now. And just like that, something in me sank. My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong, but the joy from earlier had faded like a song that ended too soon.
Still, I told myself, he’s trying. He planned this whole trip. He made breakfast. He made a playlist.
Maybe this was just his way of loving. Maybe it didn’t match mine, but it was something.
Yet deep inside, a voice whispered: Why does this feel like a test I didn’t know I was taking?
By late afternoon, we pulled into a gravel lot near a state park. The car tires crunched softly as Clay parked.
Tall pine trees stood around the lot like quiet guards. I rolled down the window and breathed in the fresh air — pine, damp earth, and something ancient.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard water rushing.
Clay was already out of the car, walking ahead fast like he couldn’t wait.
“Come on!” he called, waving. “This is the best part!”
I followed him through a winding trail. Sunlight broke through the leaves in gold streaks, birds chirped overhead, and the forest felt alive.
Then we turned a corner, and there it was.
A waterfall.
Not huge, but beautiful — about ten feet tall, spilling over dark rocks into a shallow, clear pool. Mist floated in the air like tiny ghosts, catching the light and turning silver.
Clay stood still, staring at it like it held a secret. Like it meant something.
And then something stirred in me.
“I think I’ve been here before,” I said quietly.
Clay turned to me, suddenly alert.
“My parents brought us camping here when I was little. I think this is the place.”
His face shifted instantly. The light in his eyes dimmed.
“You’ve seen it before?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah, but—” I started to explain.
He shook his head, looking away. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
But Clay didn’t answer. He was already walking back to the car, fast and silent.
At the motel nearby, he tossed our bags onto the floor and sat on the bed with his back to me.
I stood there, confused, hurt, unsure if I should speak or stay quiet.
Something was broken, and I didn’t know how it had cracked.
I stepped outside, needing air. I walked the trail again just to breathe.
And then I saw it.
An old tree near the woods.
Carved into the bark: a heart.
Inside it — Clay + Megan.
The name hit me like a punch in the chest.
Megan. The woman he once said was part of his past.
Now it all made sense — the weird looks, the strange silence, the waterfall, the barn, the light. This wasn’t our trip.
This trip had never been about me.
Later, I stood by the motel window, arms crossed, staring out at the parking lot. A moth kept batting its wings against the glass.
Behind me, Clay lay on the bed, hands folded, eyes locked on the ceiling.
I spoke quietly, voice barely there. “This wasn’t about me, was it?”
Clay sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes staring at the carpet like it held answers.
“It was supposed to be for us,” he said softly. “A fresh start.”
He paused, rubbing his hands together. “But yeah… I came here once. With her.”
My heart dropped. I didn’t need to ask who her was.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out like this,” he said. “That weekend… with Megan… it was one of the best of my life. I thought if I came back here with you, maybe I could rewrite it. Make new memories. Push the old ones away.”
He looked lost. “I didn’t know it would all come back so fast.”
I stood in silence, every feeling tangled up inside me.
“Do you still love her?” I asked, my voice flat.
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But maybe… I miss who I was when I was with her. That version of me felt lighter. Happier.”
And that’s when it hit me.
This whole trip wasn’t for us. It was for a memory. A ghost.
And I wasn’t even the main character.
“I need you here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Not back there. Not with her.”
He nodded, still staring down.
Then, before I could stop myself, I whispered, “I love you.”
He looked up — surprised. But he didn’t say it back.
Tears stung my eyes. I turned, grabbed my sweater, and walked out the door.
The wind outside was cooler than I expected.
I stood in the parking lot, arms hugging my chest, the evening sky turning soft lilac above the trees.
Why had I said it first?
The words hung in the air between us — real and unanswered.
Then I heard the motel door slam open.
“Wait!” Clay’s voice cracked like broken glass.
I turned.
He ran barefoot across the gravel, still in his wrinkled shirt, no shoes, no shame. His face was red and his hair wild.
He reached me and grabbed my hand like he needed it just to stay upright.
“I was stupid,” he said breathlessly. “I thought I could cover up old pain with something new. That if I repeated the steps, I could trick myself into moving on.”
His grip tightened.
“But you were right. This trip was never about her. You’re not a replacement. You’re the real thing.”
Then, right there in the parking lot, he pulled back and shouted: “I LOVE HER!”
A window opened. A dog barked. Someone muttered, “It’s too early for drama.”
But Clay didn’t care.
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, softer this time, “I love you.”
He leaned his forehead against mine, warm and steady. I closed my eyes.
And for the first time, I believed him.
This wasn’t a shadow of the past.
This was ours. Real. Messy. Beautiful.
And whatever ghosts we carried… they could follow.
But we weren’t stopping.
Not for them.
Not anymore.
