We settled quickly into a relationship without knowing each other. The tension creeping into our nights like a rash.

The new house nestled in the woods would let us watch the seasons fold into each other from the porch she told me. We would be snuggling in the boughs.

I’d missed my flight the day we closed. Her words condemned me. “We planned this move for the past year. We talked about it.”

“Cas?” Silence weaved into me.

She finally said. “How’d you miss your flight?" (You’re not sure, I can tell.)

I could hear the things she didn’t say, feel the weight of disappointment hanging from each word.

“I’m here now, at the airport.” (My heart misses you.)

She hadn’t heard my heart whispering across the miles only the trees grating against the house. The aroma of my favorite stew lingered as I entered the living room.

“Cas?” The trees scratched the roof.

She’d set the table for one, a note rested across the rim, the spoon beside it.

(I’ll be back in a few days.)