He shrugged. “I’ll email my professor.”
“Jake.”
“Mr. Arthur,” he said, leaning forward, “some lessons don’t happen in classrooms.”
I should have argued.
Instead, I looked at Evelyn’s face on the screen and felt something inside me wake up—something fragile, terrified, and alive.
The next morning, I bought a plane ticket.
And for the first time in years, I packed a suitcase not for a funeral, not for a doctor’s appointment, not because life required it—
But because my heart was going somewhere.
The airport felt strangely alive that morning.
Families hurried toward security with sleepy children draped over their shoulders. Business travelers marched past with coffee cups and rolling suitcases. Young couples laughed over boarding passes as if the whole world belonged to them.
I watched them all from a bench near the gate, wondering how many of them realized how quickly a lifetime could disappear.
Jake returned carrying two cups of coffee.
“I got yours black,” he said, handing one to me. “Still no sugar, right?”
I smiled.
“You remember everything.”
He shrugged with a grin.
“You’ve told me enough stories.”
I looked down at the paper cup warming my hands.
Stories.
That was all I had left of Evelyn.
Stories about summer afternoons by the lake. About sneaking into the old movie theater because neither of us could afford two tickets. About long walks across campus after evening classes when we dreamed about the future as though it had already been promised to us.
“We were going to buy a little house,” I murmured without realizing I’d spoken aloud.
Jake looked over.
“What kind of house?”
“Nothing fancy.”
I laughed quietly.
“She wanted a porch swing. I wanted a workshop in the garage.”
“And kids?”
The question lingered between us.
“As many as life would give us.”
Instead, life had taken us in different directions before we ever had the chance.
When our flight was called, Jake picked up both suitcases before I could reach for mine.
“I can still carry my own luggage,” I protested.
“I know.”
He smiled.
“But let me anyway.”
The flight lasted only a few hours.
To me, it felt like sixty years.
Every time I closed my eyes, memories surfaced.
Evelyn laughing as she beat me at cards.
Evelyn pretending not to notice when I held her hand for the first time.
Evelyn standing outside the college library beneath an umbrella, telling me she believed we could survive anything together.
Back then, I believed it too.
Then came that letter.
The words had haunted me for decades.
“Please don’t look for me.”
I had obeyed.
Perhaps too well.
As the plane descended, Jake gently nudged my shoulder.
“We’re here.”
I looked out the window.
The city stretched beneath us, unfamiliar in every direction.
Somewhere among those streets was the woman I had once imagined growing old beside.
Instead, we had grown old apart.
Neither of us had chosen that ending.
A taxi carried us through quiet neighborhoods lined with maple trees whose leaves danced in the afternoon breeze.
Finally, the driver slowed in front of a peaceful brick building surrounded by flower gardens.
The sign near the entrance read:
Willow Creek Senior Living.
My heart began pounding so hard I wondered if the nurses inside would mistake it for a medical emergency.
Jake rested a hand on my shoulder.
“We don’t have to rush.”
I nodded.
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