I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling harshly, my grip on the photo tightening.
She loved me.
Maybe she never said it. Maybe she was too scared, too stuck in her own head, too convinced she wasn’t capable of love—but this? This proves what I’ve always known deep down.
She felt it.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "So what the hell happened, Mads?" I whisper, my voice raw, cracking under the weight of everything I’m trying not to feel.
She looks so damn happy in this picture. We both do.
Now, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see her look at me like this again.
I force myself to shove the picture into my duffel, gripping the zipper so tight, my knuckles turn white as I zip it shut.
Because no matter how badly I want to hold onto this—onto her—I can’t.
She made her choice.
And now, I have to live with mine.
Mile after mile of empty road, my music turned up just loud enough to drown out the noise in my head—but not enough to erase the weight in my chest, to keep me from thinking about that damn photo sitting in my duffel bag.
I should’ve left it behind.
I should’ve burned it.
But I couldn’t.
Because no matter how much I tell myself I need to move on,that image—the way she looked at me—feels like a tether I can’t quite cut.
The sky is dark by the time I pull into my parents’ driveway, the porch light casting a warm glow against the familiar coastal house. The waves are quiet tonight, a soft hum in the background as I throw my truck into park and scrub a hand down my face.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been home, but everything feels exactly the same, like the world kept moving even while I felt stuck.
I grab my duffel from the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind me before making my way up the steps. The second I push the front door open, the scent of my mom’s cooking—something buttery and warm—wraps around me like a damn hug.
For the first time in a long time, my shoulders ease. I set my bag down by the entryway and call out, “Mom?”
I barely get the word out before I hear her voice echo down the hall. “In the kitchen, sweetheart!”
As soon as I walk into the kitchen, my mom swoops in, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug, her head barely reaching my chest.
“My boy,” she murmurs, squeezing me like she hasn’t seen me in years instead of just a few weeks. “I missed you, Jaxon.”
I let out a slow breath, some of the tension I’ve been carrying finally easing as I hug her back. “Missed you too, Ma.”
She pulls away just enough to study my face, her warm brown eyes narrowing slightly. “You look exhausted.”
I huff out a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Long semester.”
Her lips press into a thin line, like she knows that’s only half the story, but she doesn’t push. Not yet.
Instead, she pats my cheek and motions to the kitchen table. “Sit, sit! Let me get you something to eat.”
I don’t argue. I drop into one of the chairs, leaning back as I take in the familiar space. The kitchen looks exactly the same—fridge covered in pictures, little notes scribbled on the calendar, the scent of something baking still lingering in the air.
Home.
