Almost Yours

It was always the same bench outside the Dugan Library at Newman University in Wichita, Kansas, where I waited for her every morning. The campus buzzed with students rushing to their classes, but for me, the world slowed down the moment I saw her — Grace Whitaker.

She was like Kansas sunlight, bright and warm, with curls that tumbled over her shoulders in carefree defiance. Her pale skin glowed even on overcast days, freckles scattered across her nose like constellations. She was beautiful in a way that felt impossible to forget.

"Hey, waiting for me again, Vince?" she called out with a teasing grin, her blue eyes sparkling.

"Always," I replied, grinning back, masking the truth as I always did.

We'd been friends since freshman orientation. She had transferred from Topeka, and I’d been the awkward guy from Wichita trying to give directions to the wrong building. Somehow, that mishap turned into years of friendship.

Grace was the kind of girl who filled up a room with laughter, even when life threw curveballs her way. And I, Vincent "Vince" Morgan, had been hopelessly, silently in love with her since that very first day.

The problem? Grace wasn’t mine to love.

She was with Eric — tall, charismatic, the guy who knew exactly what to say to charm everyone in the room. I hated him, not just because he was her boyfriend, but because he never really appreciated her the way I did.

"Eric and I fought again," Grace sighed one afternoon as we sat at a corner booth in the popular Ziggy’s Pizza near Delano.

"What happened this time?" I asked, already bracing myself for the familiar ache in my chest.

"He just doesn't get me," she said, stirring her soda with a straw. "Sometimes I wonder if he ever will."

I get you, Grace. I always have.

But I kept my mouth shut, just like always. I was the shoulder she leaned on when Eric messed up, the guy who dropped everything to pick her up when her car broke down near Keeper of the Plains or when she just needed to clear her head with a walk by the Arkansas River.

I memorized everything about her—the way her laugh echoed like music, the crinkle near her eyes when she smiled, the softness of her voice when she talked about her dreams of becoming a writer.

There were moments I let myself imagine the impossible. What if I told her? What if I reached across the table and said, "Grace, it’s always been you. Can’t you see?"

But life wasn’t a movie, and Wichita wasn’t Hollywood.

One evening, after finals week, Grace called me. "Can we go for a drive?" she asked, her voice shaky.

"Of course," I said, grabbing my keys without hesitation.

We drove past downtown, the neon lights flickering as we made our way toward Pawnee Prairie Park. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable.

"Do you ever think about what life would be like if things were different?" she asked suddenly.

"All the time," I admitted, my heart pounding.

She looked out the window, her expression unreadable. "You’re always there for me, Vince. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Because I love you, Grace. More than you’ll ever know.

But I didn’t say it. I couldn’t.

Years passed like the Kansas wind — swift and relentless. Grace graduated, moved to Denver for a job, and I stayed in Wichita, working as a graphic designer. We kept in touch, sporadically at best. She married Eric, despite the rocky relationship. And me? I stayed the same, carrying a love that never faded but remained hidden, tucked away in the quiet corners of my heart.

One summer, she came back for a visit. We met at Reverie Coffee Roasters, where the smell of fresh brew mingled with nostalgia.

"You haven't changed a bit," she said, smiling softly.

"Neither have you," I lied, though I could see the subtle lines of time tracing her face.

As we sat there, sipping coffee and talking about everything and nothing, I realized something. Some love stories aren’t meant to be written in bold declarations or grand gestures.

They linger instead, etched in the quiet moments — in glances that say a million words, in memories of shared laughter under Wichita’s endless skies, and in the knowledge that sometimes, loving someone silently is its own kind of forever.

And so, as Grace said goodbye and walked out of the café, I smiled through the bittersweet ache. She would never know the depth of my love, but that was okay. Some stories, like the Kansas wind, are meant to be felt rather than seen.