Updated Apr 11, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 23: Without Her
Jackson
The first month without her is hell.
I’ve survived a lot in my life—four tours in Afghanistan, watching my unit die, building a new life from scratch in the wilderness. But nothing prepared me for how hard it would be to survive losing Sloane.
The cabin is too quiet.
It was quiet before she came, but it was the peaceful quiet of solitude, of chosen isolation. Now it’s the oppressive quiet of loneliness, of absence, of knowing exactly what’s missing and being unable to fill the void.
Everything reminds me of her.
The bed we shared—I can’t sleep in it anymore. I’m back in my chair, spending nights dozing in uncomfortable positions because lying down reminds me too much of holding her, of the way she fit perfectly against me, of how right it felt to wake up with her in my arms.
The stove where she learned to cook. The books she read aloud. The spot by the window where she used to sit and watch the snow fall. The axe she could barely lift when she first arrived but mastered by the end.
She’s everywhere and nowhere, haunting every corner of this place that used to be my sanctuary.
Bear is depressed.
I can see it in the way he lies by the door every morning, waiting for her to come back. In the way he doesn’t eat with his usual enthusiasm. In the way he keeps bringing me things she touched—her hairbrush that she left behind, a sock, the bookmark from one of my books that she used.
He misses her.
We both do.
And I’m starting to wonder if I made the biggest mistake of my life by letting her go.
It’s been a month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days since I watched that helicopter take her away. And I haven’t heard from her. Not a call, not a letter, nothing.
She’s not coming back, a voice in my head whispers. She realized you were right. That it was just a fantasy. That her real life is in New York, not in a cabin with a broken man.
I tell myself it’s for the best. That she deserves better than what I can give her. That she’s probably already back to her normal life, maybe even laughing about the crazy two weeks she spent playing survivor in the mountains.
But I don’t believe it.
Can’t make myself believe it.
Because her note is still in my pocket, worn soft from how many times I’ve read it. *I’m coming back. Please wait for me.*
I’m trying to wait.
But I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto hope before it destroys me.
I’m chopping wood—more wood than I need, more than I can use, but I need something to do with my hands or I’ll go insane—when I hear the sound of an ATV approaching.
Visitor.
I haven’t had a visitor in… God, I can’t even remember. Five years and the only people who come out here are the occasional ranger checking to make sure I haven’t died.
Mike Chen pulls up on his ATV, killing the engine and pulling off his helmet. He takes one look at me and his face falls.
“Jesus, Torres. You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I sink the axe into the chopping block. “Good to see you too, Mike.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate? Slept?” He’s walking toward me now, concern written all over his face. “You look like you’ve lost twenty pounds.”
“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, and we both know it.
“You’re not fine.” He crosses his arms. “You’re in love with the city girl.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Sloane. The woman you rescued. You’re in love with her.” It’s not a question.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is when you’re out here wasting away because she’s gone.” Mike leans against the woodpile. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” He settles in like he’s got all day. “I’m not leaving until you talk, and I’ve got plenty of time. My shift doesn’t end for six more hours.”
I glare at him, but he just shrugs.
Fine.
“I’m in love with her,” I admit, and saying it out loud makes it feel more real, more painful. “And she’s gone. Back to her life in New York. That’s it. End of story.”
“Does she love you back?”
“She says she does.” I run a hand through my hair. “Said she’s coming back. But that was a month ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Did you ask her to stay?”
“What?”
“When she left,” Mike says patiently. “Did you ask her to stay? Did you tell her you love her? Did you fight for her at all?”
“I—” I stop, because the truth is damning. “No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it wouldn’t work!” The words explode out of me. “Because she has a life in New York, a career, a future. Because I can’t give her what she deserves—a partner who can function in society, who can take her to dinner or movies or do any of the normal relationship things. Because I’m broken, Mike. I’m damaged goods. And she deserves better than spending her life trapped in the wilderness with a hermit who has PTSD nightmares.”
“Did you ask her what she deserves?” Mike’s voice is quiet now. “Or did you decide for her?”
The question lands like a punch to the gut.
“I was protecting her—”
“You were protecting yourself,” he corrects gently. “You were so scared of being hurt that you pushed her away before she could choose to stay. Did it ever occur to you that maybe she actually meant it when she said she wanted this life? That maybe you’re exactly what she needs, broken parts and all?”
“People always think they want this life until they actually have to live it,” I say bitterly. “Sarah—”
“Is not Sloane.” Mike cuts me off. “And you know that. Sarah grew up in California, hated the cold, couldn’t handle isolation. From what you’ve told me, Sloane thrived out here. Learned to survive, found peace, fell in love with you. Those aren’t the actions of someone who’s going to bail after six months.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Neither do you!” His patience is clearly wearing thin. “That’s the point, Jacks. You don’t know what would have happened if you’d asked her to stay. You don’t know if it would have worked or failed. You just decided it would fail and didn’t give her—or yourself—the chance to prove you wrong.”
I sink down onto the chopping block, my head in my hands.
“What if she doesn’t come back?” I whisper. “What if I believed her and she changed her mind?”
“Then at least you would have tried.” Mike sits down beside me. “Look, I can’t tell you what’s going to happen. Maybe she comes back, maybe she doesn’t. But I can tell you that sitting out here slowly dying because you’re too scared to hope is not living. It’s just existing. And you deserve better than that.”
“She said she’s coming back in a month or two,” I admit quietly. “Left me a note.”
“It’s been a month?”
“Yeah.”
“So she might show up any day now.” Mike grins. “And you’re going to feel like a real idiot if she walks up to this cabin and finds you looking like death warmed over.”
He’s right.
God, he’s right.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“First, you eat something. Shower. Take care of yourself. Then you wait. And if she comes back—when she comes back—you tell her the truth. Tell her you love her, that you’re terrified, that you don’t know how to do this but you want to try. Give her the choice you should have given her a month ago.”
“And if she doesn’t come back?”
“Then you’ll survive it. Like you’ve survived everything else.” He stands, offering me his hand. “But my money’s on her coming back. Woman who learned to chop wood and survive a blizzard just to prove your grumpy ass wrong doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up easy.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Anytime.” He heads back to his ATV, then pauses. “Oh, and Jacks? When she does come back, try actually using words to tell her how you feel. Women generally appreciate that.”
“Noted.”
He drives away, and I’m left standing in my clearing with more hope than I’ve had in a month and the terrifying realization that Mike is absolutely right.
I pushed her away without giving her a choice.
Made all the decisions for both of us because I was too scared to believe that maybe—just maybe—she actually meant what she said.
I go inside, where Bear is lying in his usual spot by the door, still waiting.
“She’s coming back,” I tell him, and his ears perk up. “Mike thinks so, and I… I want to believe it. I want to believe she meant it.”
He wags his tail tentatively, like he’s afraid to hope too much.
“Yeah, buddy. I know exactly how you feel.”
That night, I clean up. Actually shower, shave, eat a real meal instead of just existing on coffee and whatever I can grab quickly. I clean the cabin, which has fallen into disarray over the past month. I even wash the sheets on the bed, getting rid of the last traces of her scent because if she comes back, I want it to be fresh.
If she comes back.
When she comes back.
I have to start believing that. Have to start hoping, even though it terrifies me.
Because Mike was right about something else: sitting here waiting to die because I’m too scared to live is not what I survived Afghanistan for.
I survived so I could have a life.
And maybe—just maybe—that life includes her.
I pull out her note, reading it one more time.
*I’m coming back. Please wait for me.*
“I’m waiting,” I whisper to the empty cabin. “I’m waiting, Sloane. Please don’t make me wait forever.”
Outside, the wind whispers through the pines, and for the first time in a month, it almost sounds like hope.
Reader Reactions