Chapter 1 (Part 2)

Camp was ending. We had only a few days left before everything dissolved into goodbyes and boxes and highways. I was headed back across the country to finish college. He was supposed to go home.

We were sitting in the clearing, the grass pressed flat beneath us, talking about what came next when he looked at me and said, “I don’t want this to end.”

I said, “Me neither.”

And then—casually, bravely—he asked, “Could I come with you?”

There was something reckless in his voice, something honest. He said he wanted to see where this could go. He didn’t want us to end when the camp season did. And deep down, neither did I.

So I said yes.

Later that night, I lay in my bunk and thought about what came next. Not just the logistics, but the impact. Him leaving his family 1,500 miles away. How my roommates would feel. What my parents would say. What he would do while I was in class every day.

He said he’d find work if it turned into a long-term thing. I nodded, and pretended that made me feel better.

I didn’t ask too many questions. I didn’t want to poke holes in something that felt like a dream. I told myself it would work itself out.

I wanted this to be easy. Romantic. Meant to be.

He didn’t tell his mom. Not really. Just that he was leaving, that he needed to figure some things out. I didn’t exactly tell my parents either—just that I was going back and he might visit.

I did ask my roommates, casually, if it would be okay if he stayed with us for a while.

And then, just like that, camp ended.

He threw his bag in my car like he belonged there. Like this had always been the plan. No ceremony. No roadmap.

We left.

Living together started out like something out of a movie. We ate late-night snacks on the floor, binged shows under mismatched blankets, and kissed until we forgot what day it was. I loved having him there. It felt spontaneous and sweet and full of potential.

He got a job—but it never paid quite enough. Never had enough hours. It was always temporary, always not quite stable.

But we managed. Barely. We lived week-to-week. He said he was trying.

And I was trying too—to hold it all up, to keep the fridge filled and money for nights out like college kids do. But back then, I didn’t realize how much I was quietly carrying. I just thought: this is love, right? This is what building a life looks like.

Sometimes, when things got hard, I’d think back to that clearing. The hush of the trees. The way his hand found mine was like a secret. The way he’d looked at me like I was a new chapter he couldn’t wait to read.

That memory became a place I went back to. A touchstone. A soft light.

Even when reality began to unravel around the edges.

He went home for Thanksgiving. No idea when he would be back. I went home for Thanksgiving and then back to college, juggling exams and a growing knot in my stomach. He still didn’t have plans to return.

Christmas came. His brother stepped in and bought him a plane ticket as a gift.

When he walked through the door, snow-dusted and tired, he hugged me like I was breath itself. He said he never wanted to be that far from me again.

And I believed him.

But something had shifted.

Tension started to build—between us, around us. We argued. I felt pressure from my parents. From the version of myself, I was starting to lose track of.

So I made a choice.

I quit school. We packed up what little we had and moved 1,500 miles to where his family lived.

It felt bold. Romantic. Like the kind of thing people write songs about. Like something you do for love.

At first, it was just temporary—we lived with his mom. Then we got our own place.

And that’s when the inheritance came into play.

It had been sitting untouched, meant for something meaningful. And this felt like that. Like the start of a forever. A shared dream.

So I used it.

Rent, furniture, groceries, bills—piece by piece, it went into the life we were building. He still had work, but it was never enough. It didn’t cover what we needed. But I wanted to believe that one day, it would.

I told myself I was investing in us.

I saw us as a team. I pictured a ring. A wedding. Children. A house with a yard and late-night dance parties in the kitchen. I thought this was the middle of the story—where the struggle was part of the climb, where it would all eventually pay off.

I loved him. That much was true.

And I wanted so badly for love to be enough.

What I didn’t realize was that I’d become the one holding everything up. Quietly. Consistently. Willingly.

He wasn’t asking me to—but he wasn’t stopping me, either.

He let me make it easy. He let me believe that I had to.

And over time, it stopped being a choice and started being a pattern.

Looking back, I can see it now: that urge to keep the peace, to hold things together, to never rock the boat. I thought it was love. I thought it was loyalty.

But maybe it was just me… trying to prove I was enough for both of us.

I wish I could go back and tell that younger version of myself: it’s okay to want love, but not at the expense of your peace. Not at the expense of your future. You don’t have to carry it all to keep someone. And if you do, they were never yours to begin with.

He didn’t build with me. He simply stood beside me while I built around him. And when it was no longer easy, he walked away, leaving behind a mess I had already cleaned up too many times before.

But even in all of that, I learned. I grew. And I am still standing—wiser, stronger, and far more careful about what it truly means to build a life together.