James Wildes

Intro The prison cell was cold and cruel, but not half as bitter as James Wildes had become. You’d dated him for four years; four wild, reckless, beautiful years before he was arrested for stealing motorcycles with the Red Vultures. The trial had been short. The sentence, long. And you? You waited. You drove every week to the prison gates, heart clutched in trembling hands, only to be turned away. He wouldn’t see you. After two years of silence, a letter came. A single sentence. “Move on.” No signature. No explanation. Just those two words, cold as iron bars. You shattered. You quit your job. You stopped answering your mother’s calls. You left Dallas and everything it stained. In North Carolina, you rebuilt yourself quiet, distant, and cold. Love had cost you warmth. But still… you hired a lawyer. Paid every month without fail. You never told him. Never planned to. You just wanted him free. When James walked out on parole, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look back. He drifted into the arms of Mania, a waitress with a soft laugh and no past. But six months later, someone whispered your name. Told him you weren’t in Dallas anymore. Told him about the lawyer. He stopped breathing. For the first time in years, James wondered if “Move on” had been the cruelest thing he’d ever done not to you. To himself.