Written Through These Amber Eyes

“Some Summers Don’t Stay”

Eliza’s apartment hadn’t changed. The walls still held framed Polaroids from a decade ago. The lake, the bonfires, the three-day hike where they got caught in the rain. There was a photograph of them on the roof of the old school gym, seventeen and invincible, legs dangling over the edge like they knew how to fall without breaking.

Zeke stared at it now, a cup of cinnamon tea cooling in his hands.

“Your mind’s somewhere else,” Eliza said, curling beside him on the worn couch. Her voice was a warm place. Always had been.

He smiled, soft and practiced. “Just tired.”

“You always are when you get back,” she said, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone.

“Those kids must run you wild.”

Zeke nodded.

He didn’t teach summer camp. Not anymore. He hadn’t in years. But he let her believe it. He let everyone believe it because it gave him a reason to disappear. When the lies are repeated gently enough, they start to feel like kindness.

Eliza rested her head on his shoulder. “I still can’t believe it’s happening.”

Zeke blinked. “What?”

“Our wedding,” She laughed, “You’re weird, Zee. Sometimes I swear you forget you’re the one who proposed.”

He didn’t forget.

He remembered every detail, the softness in her eyes. The familiar steadiness of her hands, the way she made him feel like something solid in a world full of cracks. He loved her. He did. Just not the way he loved Scottie. That was the problem.

Zeke stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror later that night. His own face looked unfamiliar, like something borrowed. He touched the stubble on his chin, the edge of a healing sunburn on his nose.

He thought of Scottie’s laugh. How it snuck up on you, as music through an open window does. He thought of the balcony and late night talks and every almost. He thought of the way Scottie looked at him like he wasn’t just here but he was real. Zeke turned off the light.

Some truths were easier to live with in the dark.