Page 8 of Since the Day We Kissed

Ethan steeled himself and trudged toward the house. With each step, mud oozed around his boots, while Hero’s paws left a trail of glistening prints. The porch groaned as they climbed the rotting steps, old wood bowing under their combined weight. Reaching the door, the key scraped against rust as Ethan jammed it into the lock, twisting and jiggling until it finally gave way with a click.

The door opened with a push.

“Here we go,” Ethan muttered, giving Hero a quick pat.

The moment Ethan crossed the threshold, a wave of stale air hit him, carrying the unmistakable scent of mildew. Hero padded in behind him, sniffing cautiously, before settling onto a threadbare rug a few feet away. Ethan’s nose wrinkled involuntarily as he scanned the living room, eyes drifting over the ancient television set, then to a bookshelf cluttered with old mystery novels and mismatched knick-knacks. The couch, worn and torn at the seams, sagged under its faded upholstery, revealing patches of yellowed foam beneath.

Absolutelynothinghad changed.

Ethan moved through the living room into the kitchen, dropping his keys and phone on the counter as he used to when he lived here. He walked over to the fridge and opened it, unsure of what he’d find. It was mostly bare, with a few half-empty bottles of water on the middle shelf and an old jar of pickles in the door. He closed it and turned around, taking in the peeling wallpaper next to the stove.

A soft, persistent drip broke the silence. Ethan’s eyes followed the sound to a small, dark stain spreading across the ceiling. A droplet swelled at the center of the patch before it released and splashed onto the floor. Another drop fell, then another.

Ethan grunted and grabbed an old pot from the cabinet below. The drip turned into a hollowplink. Each drop hitting the bottom of the pot filled the air, steady as a heartbeat.

Hero’s ears perked, and he trotted over to investigate, nose twitching as he sniffed at the pot. Ethan absentmindedly scratched the dog’s head.

The house felt heavier than it used to—like it had absorbed years of neglect along with the memories. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped into the hallway, heading toward a familiar wall.

Dust motes floated in the dim light as his gaze landed on a row of old photographs. The cheap plastic frames lined up like a visual timeline, each one a window into the boy he used to be. First grade, gap-toothed and hopeful. Fifth grade, gangly and bright-eyed. Seventh, awkward but determined. Tenth, a hint of the man emerging. And then the last—his senior portrait. That one wasn’t even framed, just pinned up with a thumbtack.

His calloused fingers skimmed the edge of the crinkled, sepia-toned school portrait.

A cold nose nudged his hand, startling him from his reverie. Hero gazed up at him, tail wagging.

Ethan smiled, rubbing the dog’s snout. “Yeah, boy. That was a lifetime ago.”

He had been so sure of everything back then, his carefree grin radiating from the pictures. Before the military, before he had known the heartache that time could never mend.

Ethan let out a breath and approached the first door on the left—his old bedroom. He reached out and turned the knob ...

Everything was still there—his bed, his desk, his dresser, and even the baseball posters of the Chicago Cubs he’d hung on the walls. The room remained untouched, right down to the rumpled sheets on the bed.

Ethan paused before stepping onto the worn floorboards, crossing the room. He stopped in front of the dresser, where a thin layer of dust coated everything. With a hand, he wiped across the top, clearing away the layer that had settled over the years. Among the forgotten items, he found his old class ring and a Ryne Sandberg baseball card.

As he continued to examine the dresser’s surface, his eyes traveled to a black frame, tilted face-down. He righted it, revealing a photo that hit him like a punch to the gut—him and his dad, both grinning in the stands at Wrigley Field.

Ethan’s throat tightened. His father had never cared for baseball, but for one day, he’d pushed aside the bottle and taken Ethan to the game. It was a rare glimpse of the man his father could have been, a fleeting moment when everything had felt right.

Setting the frame back with a soft clink, Ethan’s attention shifted to his old nightstand. There, beside a baseball-shaped lamp, sat his Polaroid camera. He lifted the camera, its familiar weight settling in his palms. As he turned it over, his mind drifted to the last time he used it.

All at once, it was as if she were right there beside him—Kara’s smiling face pressed against his chest, her soft hair tickling his chin, carrying the faint scent of jasmine. The waves crashing on the beach. The warmth of their last kiss—and the promise he had made to call her.

He closed his eyes, remembering how the next day—everything had happened so fast—he enlisted in the army, and before he knew it, he was gone.

He didn’t even tell her goodbye.

Across oceans and years, no matter how far he ran, that summer with Kara wasn’t something he could just leave behind. It was part of him, something he carried everywhere.

Ethan swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and loosened his grip on the camera—and the memory—trying to push away the painful truth he never wanted to face: Sometimes the greatest acts of love are the ones that break our hearts, but we do them anyway.

After setting the camera back on the dresser, his attention shifted to the mirror hanging above, meeting the gaze of a forty-year-old man shaped by choices made and words left unsaid.

The stranger in the mirror blinked back at Ethan—familiar blue eyes now framed by crow’s feet and tousled blonde hair streaked with silver. His gaze fell to the tattoos on his arm, each inked line a chapter of the life he’d lived since leaving this house—one dedicated to his fallen Rangers, which concealed a scar, and the other of Hero’s paw prints.

Turning away from the mirror, Ethan left his bedroom and strode down the hall, peeking into the bathroom to survey the damage there. Surprisingly, it was relatively well-kept and free of clutter. His father may have been a fall-down drunk, but at least he wasn’t a hoarder. A small win, Ethan supposed.

With a mix of dread and curiosity, he continued his tour to his father’s bedroom.

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