I THOUGHT I SAW YOUR FACE TODAY (ONESHOT)
billy stebbins x fem reader (y/n)
(a/n: this idea came from listening to the song “I thought I saw your face today” it somehow took me way longer than it needed to, and I rushed it towards the end but anyways enjoy :) reblogs and likes are always appreciated, and requests are always welcome!^^)
He looked just like you. He truly did. It was almost laughable, in a cruel, bewildering way. I ran up to him, the boy, nearly threw my arms around him without thinking. I stopped myself at the last second. Of course, he only stared back at me, confused and silent. I knew he wasn’t you, and yet every feature of yours had been copied onto him. The shape of his eyes, the line of his mouth, the way he held himself. From head to toe, I could have sworn it was you standing there.
His name, he said, was Billy Stebbins. Billy, just a nickname for William. Even the name was the same. Isn’t that a coincidence? You’ve been gone for two years now. Two years. By now we should have been married. Maybe even parents. You should have been the one to come home. It isn’t fair. Why did you give up so easily? Did you think of me at all in your final moments? Or did I never cross your mind? You signed up for the Walk, for a better life for us, only to surrender so quickly.
A teardrop slid from your eye and splashed onto what must have been the fourth notebook filled with letters, entries, really, written to a lover who was already dead. Two years had passed. Exactly two years since your boyfriend collapsed on the Long Walk. You had begged him not to go. You had dropped to your knees, pleaded until your voice broke, but he only shook his head and told you it was too late. The back-out date had already passed.
“It’s for our future,” he’d said, trying to soothe you, trying to convince you as much as himself.
You hated the idea from the start. Why would he risk his life for you? Neither of you were rich, that much was true, but you didn’t need the money badly enough for this. A long, quiet, happy life with him would have been enough. You knew the two of you would have managed somehow. You always had. Still, nothing you said could change his mind. And once he left, you refused to watch the Walk when it aired on television. You’d told him so too, your voice hoarse with panic and grief.
“I won’t watch you get tortured!” you cried, even as he insisted that you would be able to see him, even if only from far away.
Now you resented yourself for that decision. Maybe if he had known you were watching, he would have pushed himself a little longer. Just a little. He had made it to the top three. The winner from that year was the one who told you, the one who showed up at your door and handed you your boyfriend’s tag. Number 38. William’s number.
You remembered the way you slammed the door in his face. You hadn’t even asked his name. You’d barely looked at him, only at the tag hanging against his chest. Number 47. Then the door closed, sharp and final, as though it were his fault that your boyfriend hadn’t come home. And back then, in your grief, it almost felt reasonable.
Why did only he get to live? If your boyfriend had lasted just a little longer, maybe he would have been the one standing there. Maybe he would have come back to you. The what-ifs never stopped. Every letter you wrote was filled with them, every page crowded with alternate endings and imagined mercies. Letters you would never be able to give him.
Still, you couldn’t stop writing. Not once had you missed a day. Even on the mornings when anger burned hotter than grief and anger at him for leaving you behind. You always wrote.
You had family, but you might as well have been a ghost in their house. They noticed you only when they had to, spoke to you only when it was necessary, never truly spoke with you. When you locked yourself in your room and drowned in tears after your boyfriend’s death, no one came to check on you. No one tried to comfort you.
With him gone, you were truly alone. And that loneliness made his death hurt all the more. It felt like betrayal. Like being abandoned at a shelter, unwanted and forgotten. Without him, everywhere felt foreign. Nothing was familiar anymore.
You wiped your tears away roughly and dressed without care: a simple black long-sleeved shirt, black jeans. You weren’t in the mood for anything fancy, and the place you were going didn’t require it. You were going to the cemetery to visit your boyfriend. In that, at least, you had been lucky.
His body had been recovered. You were allowed a proper burial. You were able to see him one last time.
But he wasn’t the man you remembered. He was pale and cold, empty in a way that made your chest ache. You’d spent so long in denial, telling yourself it couldn’t be him. Even knowing he was dead, seeing his unmoving body felt unreal, like some terrible mistake.
You shook the thought away as the image rose uninvited in your mind once more.
You slipped your shoes on and stepped out of your room. As usual, your family didn’t spare you a single glance. It wasn’t new, hardly even surprising anymore, but it still managed to fracture something in your chest. You didn’t try to speak. There was no point. You simply grabbed your purse and walked out the door.
The flower shop was your destination. It was his second death anniversary. He deserved something nice.
The bell chimed softly as you entered, the familiar scent of greenery and earth wrapping around you like a fragile comfort.
The voice belonged to Mr. Lee, the shop owner. He was an elderly man, well into his sixties, and the closest thing you had to a friend. He remembered you from the very first time you’d walked in, back when your hands had shaken as you asked for flowers for your late boyfriend. White lilies, he had suggested then. You’d trusted him immediately. Somehow, you still did.
“Hello, Mr. Lee,” you replied, offering a gentle smile.
Your red, swollen eyes and stuffy nose betrayed you anyway.
“Going to see Mr. James today?” he asked kindly.
You hummed in response, fingers brushing over the edge of a vase. “I miss him more every day,” you sighed.
Your gaze wandered across the shop. Every arrangement looked beautiful. For a brief moment, it even made your heart feel lighter.
The door chimed again, and you heard Mr. Lee excuse himself to help another customer. You continued browsing, even though you already knew what you would choose. White lilies, as always. Still, there was no harm in looking. He wouldn’t be ready to cash you out just yet.
That was when you heard it.
They came from somewhere nearby, from a boy who sounded around your age. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to intrude. Many people came here to buy flowers for the dead, the cemetery being only a short walk away. You had learned long ago not to pry.
And yet, something about him pulled at you.
You felt an urge to comfort him, sharp and insistent. Maybe it was because he sounded young. Maybe because grief, recognized grief. You understood that kind of pain, the loss that hollowed you out and left your voice trembling.
You told yourself not to. Your mind warned you to stay where you were. But your body didn’t listen. Your feet moved on their own, drawn toward the sound, though your eyes remained fixed on the floor. You knew how exposed crying made people feel. You hated being seen like that yourself. When your face was already flushed from tears, the moment someone met your gaze while you cried, embarrassment would make you red ten times harder.
You cleared your throat softly.
“White lilies symbolize peace.”
“My mom liked roses,” he replied, sniffing, his voice cracking.
Your chest tightened. The pain in his words was fresh, unmistakable. It must be recent, you thought, swallowing against the bitterness rising in your throat.
“Red roses represent love,” you said gently, “and grief. I’m sure your mom would love them.”
You reached for the roses, but so did he.
Your hands brushed. You jerked back instinctively, your purse slipping from your grasp and hitting the floor. You cursed yourself inwardly for your clumsiness, but before you could bend down, he was already there, picking it up for you.
You hadn’t meant to look.
And he looked back up at you.
Blond hair. Dark blue eyes. The same nose. The same lips. The same face. He wore a black buttoned-up shirt, the fabric stretched lightly across a toned frame, and guilt flared as you realized you were staring.
The thought struck you before you could stop it, before reality caught up.
It was him. Or rather, it wasn’t.
The boy from before. The one you had nearly run into. The one who looked exactly like your William, and yet wasn’t him at all.
“Thanks,” you muttered quickly, snatching your purse from his hand and dropping your gaze as he straightened.
Your heart pounded as you hurried away. You grabbed the white lilies you always bought and rushed to the counter, leaving far more money than necessary on its surface.
“I still need to give you your change!” Mr. Lee called after you.
“Keep the change!” you said, already halfway out the door.
The bell chimed behind you.
You exhaled, a shaky breath of relief and embarrassment slipping past your lips. At least it was over. You wouldn’t see the boy again.
Your vision blurred and your eyes burned as you set the flowers down beside his gravestone, lowering yourself onto the grass next to it.
“I miss you like crazy,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you fought the tears rising in your throat.
It was strange, wasn’t it? When you were children, you had both sworn you would never step foot in a cemetery.
“It’s too creepy,” ten-year-old William had said, shivering dramatically as if the thought alone might summon ghosts.
“And when you die?” you’d asked, eyebrow raised as you licked melting ice cream from your fingers.
“I’ll live a long life by your side,” he’d replied easily, “and when you go, I’ll go with you. That way it won’t be scary.”
Even then, he had promised you a future.
A future that never came.
“Liar,” you murmured now, wiping away the tear that slipped free despite your efforts.
As children, the cemetery had terrified you both. Now it was the only place that brought you peace, the only place where you could feel close to him again, where his presence seemed to linger in the quiet air.
“It’s not too scary for you here, is it?” you asked softly, almost expecting an answer.
You sighed and wiped your eyes, finally standing after nearly ten minutes had passed. Turning away from the grave, your gaze wandered. Usually, you kept your eyes fixed on the ground as you walked back, but this time you searched the rows of stones and paths beyond them.
You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Only that you felt desperate to find something.
“There was a butterfly on my mom’s grave. I think she liked the roses.”
The voice startled you. You spun around, unsure at first if it was even meant for you.
“I told you,” you said softly, offering him a small smile.
He didn’t respond, just stared at you, wide-eyed, as though stunned.
“Well…” You cleared your throat. “I should get going. Get home safely.”
You turned away and began to walk. Almost immediately, you heard footsteps falling into rhythm beside yours.
You glanced over at him. “What?”
“Coffee,” he repeated quickly. “Do you want to get coffee with me?”
His ears were bright pink.
You pressed your lips together to suppress a laugh, studying his tense posture and nervous fidgeting. He was anxious. You weren’t sure why, but you found it endearing all the same.
You nodded, smiling. “Sure thing, kid.”
The walk was quiet, but not awkward. The silence felt oddly comforting, like it didn’t demand anything from either of you. He held the diner door open for you, and you mouthed a small thank you as you stepped inside.
You slid into a booth near the window and waited for the waitress. From the way he kept glancing at you, you could tell he had questions. Too many of them, but lacked the courage to ask.
“You want to say something, don’t you, kid?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m twenty,” he said, crossing his arms defensively.
“Barely old enough to drink,” you replied in a sing-song voice. “I’m twenty-two.”
“Two years is nothing,” he protested.
“Are you gonna talk?” you asked.
You bit down on your bottom lip, unsure if you could say his name aloud without shattering, especially to someone who looked so painfully like him.
“It’s just… before I told you my name,” Billy continued carefully. “When you bumped into me almost two weeks ago, you called me William.”
“My boyfriend,” you said quietly, tears pooling in your eyes. “He’s been gone for two years now. Today’s his death anniversary.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking down.
“Don’t be.” You smiled at him, warm but fragile, tears threatening to spill.
“My mom died a month ago,” he blurted suddenly, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear.
You blinked away your tears and nodded, letting him know you were listening.
“I couldn’t afford her treatment anymore,” he said, guilt etched across his face. “She was all I had left. I have no one now… except my dad. And he doesn’t even know I exist.”
His eyes shimmered with tears. You had the overwhelming urge to hug him, but forced yourself to stay seated.
“If he knew about you,” you said gently, “don’t you think he’d take responsibility?”
He scoffed, shaking his head.
“No. He’s got more kids than you’d think. He’s not that kind of man. So I’m alone. Completely alone.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“My name wasn’t picked,” he interrupted. “I put my name in for the Walk to pay for her treatment. But even if I had gone… she still would’ve been dead when I came back.”
That was it. The tears finally escaped, trailing down your cheeks. Maybe it was the mention of the Walk, how it had stolen William from you. Or maybe it was realizing you might never have met Billy at all if his name had been chosen.
“That’s how he died,” you whispered. “The Walk.”
His eyes softened. Without warning, he stood and slid into the seat beside you, pulling you into his arms.
You barely had time to react, but you didn’t resist.
It was the first genuine comfort you had felt in years. You felt selfish knowing his loss was so recent, yet here he was, comforting you. Embarrassed and aching, you buried your face in his chest and sobbed silently.
He rubbed your back gently. You felt safe, even as you cried openly in public like a child.
Someone cleared their throat.
The waitress, you realized, had been standing there the entire time. You hid your face deeper against Billy’s chest.
“Two drip coffees and two croissants,” he said calmly.
You heard her heels click away. Only then did you pull back quickly, wiping your cheeks, your heart still pounding.
“I got your shirt wet. I’m sorry.”
Your breathing was still uneven, making the words come out warped and breathless. For some reason, that made him laugh, and strangely enough, hearing it eased the tightness in your chest. He reached up and gently wiped the tears from your cheeks.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I was the one who offered.”
“I’ll wash your shirt,” you said quickly.
“Are you gonna make me take it off here?”
Your face flared with heat. “No no, I mean next time we see each other, when you’re wearing a different—”
“So we will see each other again?”
Stebbins’ face lit up instantly.
“Is that all you heard?” you grinned.
“If we see each other again,” he said, trying to sound confident, “it’ll be a date.”
His ears were red again, betraying him. He was shy.
“Yeah, okay, whatever,” you replied, rolling your eyes playfully. “Next time we see each other, bring this shirt so I can take it home, and wash it for you.”
“You didn’t say no to it being a date,” he said, smiling and suddenly fascinated by everything in the diner except you.
“You kid,” you said, sniffing softly as you wiped the lingering dampness from your eyes.
The rest of the time you spent together in the diner was easy, filled with quiet laughter and conversation. You felt happy, and that happiness carried with it a twinge of guilt. It was your boyfriend’s death anniversary, after all. But maybe it was a sign. Maybe you were allowed to feel this way again. Maybe William himself had sent him to you.
Stebbins walked you home that night.
Truthfully, you dragged your feet the entire way, moving as slowly as you could. You didn’t want to go back. Not after a day like this. For the first time in years, you had smiled without forcing it. You had felt light. Alive.
Still, the house eventually came into view.
“Thanks for walking me home,” you said, rocking back and forth from your heels to your toes.
“It’s no problem,” he replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He hummed. “Unless you already dread the sight of me.” He grinned.
“Not at all,” you said quickly, shaking your head.
“Okay then,” he said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He hesitated, lingering like he didn’t want to leave yet, like neither of you quite knew how to end the moment. Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t rushed or impulsive. It felt deliberate, restrained, as if he’d been holding back for a long time.
He searched your face, trying to read you. You were grateful for the darkness, the heat flooding your skin told you your face was surely bright red.
“Goodnight, kid,” you said, stumbling over the words. You heard him chuckle as he turned and walked away.
You stood there for a second like an idiot before finally going inside. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you told yourself it was only because you’d walked all the way home from the diner, nothing more than that.
Time after that day moved strangely, days folding into weeks, weeks dissolving into months until everything blurred together. He made sure to see you every day. On his days off, you often spent the entire afternoon at his place. Nothing ever felt awkward, not even the silences. Sometimes you would sit on his couch with a book in your hands, your legs draped over his lap while he watched television. If you were being honest, you caught him watching you more than the screen more than once.
Yet despite how close you had grown, neither of you ever found the courage to define what you were. No labels. No conversations. Not even proper acknowledgement. It frustrated you, those moments when he seemed on the verge of confessing, when he leaned in close or brushed your hand as if he might kiss you, only for nothing to happen at all. You wondered if he felt it too, that tension humming between you, or if he was simply unaware.
You pushed the thought away. Today wasn’t about you.
His birthday, Saturday, March thirty-first. Time had slipped by so quickly you hadn’t even realized you’d reached March.
“Could I get a hummingbird cake, please?” you asked politely at the counter of the cake shop.
“Sure thing,” the man replied with a smile as he boxed it up and handed it to you. You paid quickly and stepped back out into the street.
You had dressed up more than usual that day. A brand-new plaid dress, a touch of makeup, nothing excessive, but enough to make you feel different. Today was his day, you knew that, but a small, hopeful part of you wondered if seeing you like this might finally push him to say something.
You hummed softly as you walked to his house. When you reached the door, you fixed your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear before knocking.
“Happy birthday!” you sang lightly.
His expression softened immediately, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Thank you.”
You handed him the small box with the cake and stepped inside as he moved aside.
“You’re all dolled up today,” he said with a grin as he closed the door.
“Just a little,” you shrugged, fighting a smile as you sat down on the couch.
The television murmured in the background, the news playing.
“You’re like an old man,” you teased with a quiet laugh. “You really like watching the news, huh?”
“I like staying informed,” he called from the kitchen. You assumed he was putting the cake away.
You hummed in response, half-listening, until you actually heard the reporter’s words.
You hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t even let it cross your mind. But in just a month, the annual Walk would begin. Names were being drawn from the lottery.
“Number thirty-eight, Billy Stebbins.”
The reporter continued, but you couldn’t hear anything else. Everything sounded distant, muffled, as if submerged underwater. It got hard to breathe.
The television clicked off.
He took your hand gently. You shoved it away.
Anger and fear twisted together in your chest.
“You put your name in again?” you scoffed, tears spilling into your eyes, your throat tightening painfully.
“Y/N, you don’t understand,” he started.
“I don’t,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I don’t understand. How could you do this to me? Do I mean nothing to you, Stebbins?”
“The Major is my father,” he blurted.
You stared at him. “Okay? So what? Is this about proving yourself? Going on a suicide mission?” you mocked bitterly, your tears spilling faster.
“He’s the only family I have left,” he said, his voice cracking. “If I win, he’ll have to take me in.”
You saw the tears welling in his eyes and looked away before you completely broke.
“Am I not family to you?” you asked quietly.
“William was the only real family I ever had,” you continued, your voice trembling. “When he died, I had no one, until you. I don’t want to lose you too.”
It was a confession. Subtle, but enough.
“I’m not William,” he said softly as he sat beside you. You looked at him, confused.
“I’m physically fit. I’ve been training. I know how to ration food. I’m mentally prepared.”
And what if you get sick? you thought. What then? You couldn’t bring yourself to say it aloud.
“You’re a kid,” you said instead, poking his chest with your finger.
“I’m not a kid,” he protested, brows furrowing.
“Then prove it,” you whispered desperately. “Be a man. Stay. Don’t leave my side.”
“I’m not a kid,” he repeated, and then his lips crashed into yours.
You closed your eyes and kissed him back. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, fueled by anger and longing all tangled together. Your arms wrapped around his neck as his hands found your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap. Your face burned, shyness mixing with need.
“Can I?” he murmured between kisses.
He pulled back, hesitating needing a clear answer. “Y/N… can I?”
You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Yes.”
He laughed softly, trying to sound confident, though his red ears betrayed him again. Moments later, you felt him lift you, carrying you toward his bedroom as you clung to him, your heart pounding just as wildly as his.
Hours later, you were still in Stebbins’ bedroom. Curled in his arms, your head rested against his bare chest, your fingers intertwined with his as he pressed soft kisses to your hair every so often. It had been your first time with anyone. You couldn’t help but wonder if you had been any good, or if you had been awkward, maybe he had noticed how unsure you’d been. You hadn’t known what you were doing at all. Even with William, the two of you had never gone that far, not after all those years together. And yet here you were now, tangled up with a boy you weren’t even officially dating.
You sighed and let your eyes drift shut. Another kiss landed gently on the top of your head.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, as if he had read your thoughts.
A small laugh escaped you.
“If I end up pregnant,” you said lightly, though your chest was tight, “you’re taking responsibility, even if we aren’t dating.”
It was a strange thing to say, you knew that. But it mattered. You needed to know where you stood. Even if it sounded like a joke, you hoped it would give you an answer without you having to ask directly.
“I’ll marry you after I win,” he replied easily, his fingers threading through your hair.
You looked up at him, your eyes filling with tears all over again.
“I have to,” Stebbins murmured, kissing the tip of your nose. “We’ll get married when I come back. We’ll have two kids. One boy and one girl– or two boys, or two girls. It doesn’t matter. We’ll love them endlessly. And we’ll grow old together.”
His words made your heart sink.
They echoed too closely to the promises William had made when he told you he was joining the Walk. You remembered how you’d cursed him, how you’d called him selfish for not thinking about you. Maybe, just maybe if you handled things differently this time, the ending would change. You clung to that hope.
“You have to promise me you’ll make it back,” you whispered at last, your lips trembling as tears threatened to fall.
“I’m going to come back to you,” Stebbins said, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to it. “I promise.”
“You better,” you replied softly.
You leaned in and pressed a small kiss to his lips, earning a smile in return.
April had felt impossibly short. You were only twenty-four hours away from May, and the closeness of it made your chest tighten, your stomach churn. Anxiety sat heavy inside you, constant and nauseating. Not just emotionally, but your body had begun to betray you too. Lately, nothing stayed down. Everything you ate came back up almost immediately. Even in the mornings, when your eyes had barely opened, the faintest smell was enough to send you running to the bathroom, retching even when there was nothing left in your system.
They say a woman always knows, and you knew.
You were certain you were pregnant long before the test confirmed it at the secret doctor’s appointment you’d gone to alone. The confirmation hadn’t brought relief, only more fear. You didn’t know how to tell Stebbins. You didn’t even know what you were supposed to do.
You had spent the entire month of April with him. He’d let you move in… no, begged you to. He couldn’t stand being away from you anymore. You saw it every time he came home from work, how he clung to you as though letting go might cost him something precious. He’d pull you into his arms the moment he stepped through the door and refuse to let go of you.
It was sweet. Truly sweet. Comforting, even.
But it also made your anxiety worse.
You wondered if he knew, if somewhere deep down he understood there was a chance he wouldn’t come home. If that fear was why he stayed glued to your side, as though memorizing you in case he never got another chance.
You flushed the toilet and stepped out of the bathroom after throwing up again, rinsing your mouth at the sink until the sour taste faded.
“You’ve been sick a lot lately, Y/N,” he said gently, worry thick in his voice as he pulled you into his arms. “Do you want to go to the doctor?”
You shook your head and wrapped your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. “No,” you hummed.
He kissed the top of your head and sighed.
“I already went,” you added quietly.
He pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow so he could see your face. “When?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your throat tight. “But now you really need to come back. You have to swear to me you will.”
You swallowed hard, nerves buzzing under your skin. You weren’t sure how he would react to what came next.
“I promised you I would,” he said, though his voice trembled. He was scared too, you could hear it.
He froze. For a split second, your heart dropped, and a terrible thought flashed through your mind; that he would yell, that he would ask you to leave, that you had ruined everything.
“Are you mad at me?” you asked quietly, biting your lip as tears filled your eyes.
“Mad?” His expression broke into disbelief, then joy. “Are you crazy, Y/N? I’m gonna be a dad!”
He laughed and lifted you off the floor, spinning you around before setting you back down and pulling you into his arms again, this time careful and gentle.
“Thank you,” he whispered into your neck.
You felt him smiling, and a breath of relief escaped you.
“I thought you were gonna kick me out,” you admitted with a shaky laugh.
He pulled back and shook his head. “How could I be upset when you’re the person I want to marry?”
He reached into his back pocket, dropped to one knee, and pulled out a ring.
“I promise you,” he said softly, “I’ll come back. And when I do, we’ll get married. Marry me, Y/N.”
Your eyes flooded with tears.
“Yes,” you whispered, nodding. “Yes.”
He slid the ring onto your finger, stood, and kissed you. For the first time in a long while, hope bloomed in your chest, real, fragile hope that maybe this time would be different. That maybe he would come home.
You knew how dangerous hope could be. Still, you clung to it.
“You didn’t even officially ask me out,” you teased softly, “and now we’re getting married when you come back.”
His ears flushed red. “We skipped a step. Who cares? I love you. I know I always will.”
Your heart fluttered. “I love you.”
You kissed him, and he kissed you back instantly, sitting on the couch and pulling you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. Neither of you wanted to break the kiss until you absolutely had to.
“That’s how I got pregnant,” you joked, tapping his chest and winking.
The rest of the day felt bittersweet. You both fell asleep outside under the stars, his arms wrapped tightly around you to keep you warm. You pretended to fall asleep early, wanting him to rest, he needed it more than ever with what road ahead.
You studied his face lovingly, memorizing every detail. He was undeniably beautiful, and you hoped, so desperately, that your child would take after him.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder and laid your head back on his chest. His arms tightened around you, as if he were afraid you might disappear.
You were scared. Your hands trembled with it. But you trusted him. You had to believe he would come back to you.
Morning came too soon. It was barely six when you stirred awake, the space beside you already empty. He was up. You rubbed your tired eyes and noticed the bathroom light glowing beneath the door. You padded over and knocked softly.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he replied from inside, and the simple affection in his voice made your heart ache.
You moved into the kitchen and began making jelly sandwiches, careful and deliberate. They would be good for him while he walked, something small to keep his energy up, something familiar to remind him of home. You felt arms wrap around your waist, lips brushing your neck.
“Are those for me?” he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Mhm. For you,” you nodded, giggling softly at the kisses he pressed there.
You had been so anxious the night before, your thoughts spiraling endlessly, but his calm steadiness soothed you now. He had always been like this. Since the first day you spent together, he knew how to quiet everything running through your mind.
“I’m going to watch it when it airs on TV,” you said firmly as you wrapped the sandwiches in foil. “I better see you eating those.”
“Of course,” he chuckled, kissing your cheek.
“You’re distracting me,” you protested, though you secretly savored every second. You knew you would hate it the moment he let go.
“We should leave soon, pretty,” he reminded you gently. “I need to be there before nine.”
You nodded, a shiver running through you. You didn’t want him to go, but that choice had never been yours.
“I love you,” you said suddenly, turning to face him and cupping his face in your hands. For the first time, you saw it, the fear you thought he didn’t have, flickering in his eyes.
A tear slipped down his cheek, and your heart cracked as you wiped it away.
“Not of dying,” he said softly. “I’m scared of leaving you alone. You don’t deserve to go through that again.”
The weight of his words made you realize how much he had been carrying in silence.
“Just come back to me,” you whispered. “To us. That’s all I want.” You fought desperately to keep from crying.
“If I go,” he said hesitantly, “can you promise me one thing?”
“Don’t date anyone else,” he continued quietly. “It’s selfish, I know. I just—”
You cut him off with a gentle kiss.
“You’re the only person I’ll ever love,” you said, cradling his face. “But you have to keep your promise. Win.”
He nodded, offering you a small, brave smile.
“Take your sandwiches,” you said softly. “I’m going to use the restroom, and then we can go.”
You kissed him once more and walked away, closing the bathroom door behind you. Only then did you let the tears fall, silent and uncontrollable. You knew, deep down that he was walking toward his death, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
You splashed water on your face, brushed your hair back, tied it up, and stepped out again. He was already gone. You assumed he was waiting in the car.
You slid into the passenger seat.
“You ready?” he asked with a small smile.
“You should’ve let me drive,” you frowned. “You could’ve rested more.”
“It’s okay,” he said gently, resting a hand on your thigh. “I slept enough.”
You smiled. How did he manage to be so calm, and to make you calm too? You didn’t understand it, but you were grateful beyond words.
The drive was silent until the realization struck you, this might be the last conversation you ever had with him.
“You look just like him.”
“Like who?” He glanced at you briefly.
“The first time I saw you,” you said softly, “I thought you were him. That somehow he had come back to me.” You let out a sad laugh. “Then I realized it was impossible. Meeting you was a coincidence. Falling in love with you was a coincidence… and now I don’t want to lose you. I’m scared.”
His hand tightened gently on your thigh.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said, though you knew he was just as afraid if not more.
“Two years ago,” you continued, voice trembling, “William was number thirty-eight. He got sick. He made it to the top three, but he didn’t come home.”
“I get sick once in a while,” he said carefully. “I’ll be okay. I promise.” He traced small circles on your thigh with his thumb.
“Like I said I’ll be watching you,” you said. “On TV.”
“So stay close to the cameras,” you added, squeezing his hand.
“For my wife,” he chuckled, “I’ll do anything.”
The rest of the drive was filled with memories, childhood stories, favorite things, whispered I love yous woven into every pause. You barely noticed when the car slowed, when he handed his ID to the guard, when the road ended.
Your hands began to shake. He felt it as he parked and turned the engine off. No one else had arrived yet. He would be first.
You both stepped out of the car, and the moment he was within reach, you pulled him into your arms.
He had hugged you countless times before, but this was different. This felt final. Like goodbye.
“Keep your promise,” you whispered into his ear, kissing his cheek.
He cupped your face and kissed you gently. “I love you more. I’ll see you at home.”
You blinked back tears. “Right.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope.
“Read this,” he said quietly, “if… if I don’t make it back.”
You took it, swallowing hard, and nodded.
“I have to go now,” he said softly. You understood. You had to leave too.
Tears spilled freely now.
“Don’t cry,” he said, wiping them away just like he had the first time he ever held you. “I’ll be home soon.”
You nodded, kissed him one last time, grabbed the keys, and rushed to the car. He walked toward the starting line and sat down. He didn’t look back, not once.
You knew it was for the best.
Biting your lip, you started the engine and drove away.
You had done everything differently this time. You truly had. You had supported his decision to join the Walk instead of fighting it. You had packed him sandwiches, sandwiches he ate without hesitation at the very beginning. You had promised to watch him on television. You had driven him to the starting line yourself, kissed him goodbye, told him you loved him before leaving. You hadn’t lashed out. You hadn’t begged. You hadn’t cursed him for choosing the Walk the way you had with William.
You had done everything differently.
And it still hadn’t been enough.
As if the world itself were mocking you, he fell on the fifth day. Sick. Something that looked like a terrible cold. Third place, just like William.
The difference this time was that you saw it happen.
Your heart shattered the moment the gunshot rang out, echoing through the television before the camera panned away to numbers forty-seven and twenty-three. You collapsed to the floor, the sound still ringing in your ears. You turned the television off with shaking hands and waited for the sobs, the screams, the tears.
You felt empty. Hollow. As if there were no tears left inside you to shed. With what little strength you had left, you forced yourself to stand and walked unsteadily to the table. The envelope he had handed you at the drop-off sat there, untouched.
Inside was money, far more than you had ever seen in your life. It didn’t matter. None of it did. Desperately, you sifted through the bills until your fingers brushed against paper. Relief hit you hard.
Your hands trembled as you unfolded the letter.
To my dear girl, if you’re reading this, I didn’t make it back home. I probably couldn’t keep going. Still, I broke my promise, and I’m sorry. But you won’t be all alone. I’ll watch over you and our baby that’s on the way, in spirit. I love you. Don’t dwell on me. Take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy. I asked you not to date anyone else, but you deserve happiness. So if that person ever comes, don’t hesitate. Fall in love. Live a happy life. I’ll love you always.
Love, your Stebbins.
That was when the tears finally came.
You clutched the letter to your chest with both hands as memories of him, your first moments together, his laugh, his touch, played over and over in your mind. It wasn’t fair. None of it was.
Why didn’t he come home to you?
Why did you have to live through the same loss twice?
Why did you have to reopen a wound that had never truly healed?
You dragged yourself into what had once been your room together, now just yours. You wiped your tears roughly and reached for the journal you hadn’t touched since last May, before you had ever met Stebbins. You opened it to the final entry, then turned the page to a fresh, blank one. Pen in hand, you began to write.
ENTRY 731 - May 5, 1980
To my dear William:
I thought I saw your face, and I couldn’t help but fall in love again
