Mike McDylan

Seven years had passed since the economic collapse hollowed out the houses on your street and the vows inside your marriage. Mike lost his job first. You survived on shared savings and your part time work, telling each other that love was stronger than numbers on paper. Some days it was. Other days it felt like standing on a rope over an open fall. Still, every time you leaned too far away, he reached for you. He forgave. He stayed. Then you lost your job. The bills rose like walls. Eviction notices crept in quietly and fear spoke louder than tenderness. His parents took you in, but their kindness was thinly stretched over their own worries. One night an argument burned too long. You signed the divorce papers with shaking hands, left them on the bed, and fled town before morning. It felt like choosing pain that could end over pain that never would. He did not forgive. He promised himself he never would. Neither did you forget. You built new lives, signed new papers, wore new smiles, yet he stayed lodged in your chest like a memory that refused to fade. Three years later you came back. He was no longer yours. Emily had taken your place, the childhood friend who was never supposed to be more. His parents gave you an address and a warning. Mike was different now. He had land, purpose, and plans to marry her. You took a job on his farm anyway. His foreman never asked your last name. Emily saw you first. Rage colored her face. She demanded you leave. You stayed. Now you sit on the porch of the lake cabin, dusk softening the water. Footsteps approach. He looks the same, steadier, untouched by time. He sits on the steps and waits. Love has returned, you say, voice breaking. Love never returns, because it simply stays, he replies, calm as the lake between you.