Cheers To Us

The hills stretched out before me in impossible symmetry, green spilling endlessly, bathed in molten gold as the last of the evening light surrendered itself to the valley. A view meant to take my breath away. It did but only in the way a postcard does. Beautiful, but without a pulse.

The hotel had staged the moment perfectly: white cushions plumped on iron chairs, lanterns waiting to glow, a bottle chilled in its silver bucket. A place prepared for two.

I drank anyway, though the wine tasted like dust and endings.

This was supposed to be ours.

You’d circled this place in a brochure years ago, red pen marking the glossy page. “One day,” you said, leaning over me at the kitchen table. “One day, when we’ve saved enough.”

Every anniversary afterward, the joke repeated itself. Not yet. Maybe next year. And I’d laugh with you, pretending that next year it was guaranteed that time was ours to spend at leisure.

Now here I am. Finally, here. Alone.

I set your glass across from mine. Condensation pooled on the linen like tears I would not let fall.

Memory ambushed me. On Friday nights, our kitchen table transformed into a battlefield. Cards, dominoes, dice scattered like fallen soldiers. You were ruthless, a strategist wrapped in laughter.

“Read ‘em and weep,” you’d say, slamming down your last card with a grin that dared me to challenge it.

I’d groan, dragging a hand down my face. “How the hell do you keep beating me?”

“Because you underestimate me.” Your laughter would spill into the room, filling it with something electric. You’d tap your fingers against the table, already shuffling the deck. “Double or nothing?”

I always said yes. And always, I lost.

I never told you the truth that losing to you was my favorite kind of defeat. That your smile, your spark, your sheer joy at the game was worth every chip I pushed across the table. I should have said it. I never did.

The balcony chair across from me remained empty. I imagined you there, crowing at my defeat, daring me to one more round.

The glass in my hand felt heavier.

The couple on the next balcony laughed, music spilling from their room. Their joy dragged me back to that smoky bar on our third year together.

You swore you’d never sing. “Not me,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “I don’t have the voice for it.”

But then the first chords of your favorite song floated through the speakers, and courage or maybe tequila lifted you to your feet. You gripped the microphone with both hands, knuckles white, eyes wide. And then you sang.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was you, earnest, trembling, radiant. People clapped, some cheered, but I just stared, transfixed.

You looked at me when the song ended, cheeks flushed. “Well?”

I raised my glass in a toast. “You’re fearless.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You could’ve joined me.”

I never did. You begged me more than once, said it would be fun, said we’d butcher a duet together. But I always refused, claiming I was tone-deaf. Truth was, I was afraid. Afraid to look foolish. Afraid to give myself over so recklessly the way you did with every note.

I wonder now if you knew that my silence wasn’t indifference, but cowardice.

Some nights, I’d collapse into the couch after work, controller in hand, screen glowing. You never complained, never told me to turn it off. Instead, you curled against me, head resting on my shoulder, eyes on the game as if the outcome mattered.

“You look so serious,” you teased once, squinting at my furrowed brow. “Like the fate of the world depends on you winning.”

“Maybe it does,” I shot back, jaw tight in mock determination.

You laughed, kissed my cheek, and let me play. And I kept going. I didn’t put the controller down. Not even then.

That guilt sits in my throat now, bitter as the wine.

We wondered, didn’t we? Not far, not fancy—road trips in battered cars, stops at gas stations where you’d pick out snacks like treasure. Motels with buzzing neon signs, lumpy pillows, thin walls. We made them sacred.

I remember one night on the interstate, the sunset burning pink and orange across the horizon. You made me pull over just so you could take a picture. “Look at that sky,” you said, camera raised.

I rolled my eyes. “We’ll see another tomorrow.”

But you lowered the camera, and eyes fixed on me instead. “No. Not like this.”

I didn’t understand then. I do now.

Those trips weren’t about sights. They were about us, suspended in motion, hand in hand against the blur of the world.

I think of the nights I held you; your body curved into mine, the steady rhythm of your breath against my chest. You always asked me to say something how I felt, what I thought. But words were foreign currency to me, hard-earned and rarely spent.

So, I stayed quiet.

You mistook my silence for strength, for certainty. You told friends I was the best man you’d ever known, the anchor in your storm. You never knew I lay awake in those hours, wide-eyed, terrified of losing you even while you slept safely in my arms.

I never told you. Not once.

And now I never can.

Ten years together, and I never took you dancing. You wanted it—God, how you wanted it. The sweep of music, the twirl of bodies, the sheer abandonment of movement.

I always said no. Too clumsy, too tired, too busy. Excuses stacked like bricks, a wall between us.

I see now how little it would have cost me. One song. One step. One night of giving you what you asked for.

It haunts me—that refusal, that silence, the sting of opportunities wasted.

But still, you never called me selfish. You called me yours. You called me good.

And I don’t know if I deserve it.

I raised your untouched glass.

“To us,” I whispered.

The words cracked, fragile and broken. The valley swallowed them whole.

The lanterns bloomed, one by one, scattering golden pools across the balcony. Their glow softened everything, even grief. But beauty does not heal. It endures. The hills gleamed on, silent and eternal, unmoved by the man unraveling on their balcony.

Behind me, laughter rang out again. Alive. Careless.

The chair across from me was empty.

And so was I.