The Way Back to Us - Part 1: Returning and Remembering

At forty-five, Vanessa returns to the house she hasn’t set foot in since she was a teenager. Newly divorced, kids grown, she came back to rebuild what’s left of her life. What she didn’t expect was to find her old heartbreak living next door. The Way Back to Us is a tender, second-chance romance about grief, reconciliation, and the kind of love that lingers even when you try to leave it behind.

The Way Back to Us - Part 1: Returning and Remembering

                            Some Doors Never Stay Closed Forever    

The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I turn into the driveway, the sound louder than I remember, like the house has been waiting for me. It rises in front of me, sunlit but worn down, shutters hanging crooked and porch boards bowed with age. The paint is duller than I thought it would be, though maybe that’s just my memory painting it brighter than it ever was.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring through the windshield. The air smells faintly of pine and old dust, a scent carried on the breeze that feels like it belongs here as much as the chipped shutters. Weeds snake up through cracks in the path, tangling where my mother’s roses used to bloom.

When I finally push the front door open, it groans like it’s reluctant to let me in. The air inside is thick, stale, carrying the weight of years being closed off. Dust glints in the afternoon light, drifting lazily through the entryway. I drop my keys onto the side table, and the clatter echoes too loud in the silence.

I drag my fingertips along the banister, tracing the carved wood. My younger self flashes in my mind, flying up these stairs two at a time, sneakers squeaking, my father’s voice calling after me. Now, the silence presses close, swallowing the memory whole.

It doesn’t feel like devastation. Just disorientation. Like someone peeled back a version of me I can’t put on anymore, leaving me raw and bare in a place that used to fit.

I stand in the entryway longer than I should, letting the silence settle around me. The kids are off at college now, busy with lives that don’t need me in the same way. My marriage ended without fireworks, just a slow unraveling until there was nothing left to stitch back together. No dramatic fight, no begging. Just two people who’d run out of road, staring at each other across a table that felt colder every night.

So here I am. Not because I wanted this house, but because there wasn’t anywhere else that made sense. My roots are buried in these walls, even if they’ve gone brittle with time. If I’m going to start over, it may as well be here.

I roll the suitcase farther in, the wheels catching on the worn rug. The sound carries through the empty space, sharp and lonely, bouncing off walls that haven’t heard footsteps in years. 

The word slips out before I can stop it, soft and almost questioning. “Home.” The walls don’t answer, only groan in the silence. And truthfully, it doesn’t feel like it yet, like I’m trying on a word that doesn’t fit anymore.

I leave the suitcase by the stairs and glance toward the living room. The dim space feels smaller with that armchair blocking the window, so I decide to start there. Maybe if I can clear the space, let some light in, it won’t feel so heavy.

I turn to the hall closet, hoping for something useful. The door creaks when I open it, and sure enough, the old toolbox is still tucked inside. A half-rusted thing, handles worn smooth, lid squealing when I pry it open. I haul it into the living room, already heavier than I expected, and set it beside the armchair.

The plan is simple, move the chair, let in some light. But the thing weighs more than it has any right to. I brace my shoulder against it, pushing with all the strength I have. It doesn’t budge. The sound that leaves me is half-grunt, half-groan, and when I finally step back, I can’t help but laugh under my breath. The sound dies in the empty room before it even has the chance to echo.

“Figures,” I mutter, brushing the hair from my face. If my ex were here, he’d find a way to make this about how impractical I am. He always did.

I look back at the chair, solid and immovable, and the truth settles low in my chest. No one’s coming to help me. Whatever gets done here, I’ll have to do it myself.

And that thought is heavier than the furniture.

By the time I give up, sweat prickles along my hairline. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, letting it run, it’s cloudy, then clear, tasting faintly metallic when I take a sip. It isn’t refreshing, not really, but it’s something. Glass in hand, I push open the front door and step onto the porch, the wood groaning under my weight the same way it did when I was a teenager sneaking out after curfew. The late-afternoon sun is warm against my skin, but the breeze carries a sharp edge, crisp with pine and the faint tang of woods-moke from somewhere nearby.

I lean against the rail, sip slowly, and let my eyes wander across the street. That’s when I see a man.

At first, it’s just a figure, broad shoulders bent over something in the driveway, a pair of work gloves tugged on. He straightens, silver catching in his hair, movements deliberate and unhurried. My stomach drops before my mind can even catch up.

I know that profile.

Decades have passed, but it’s him. The boy who once swore he’d never let me go. Evan, the boy who left anyway.

Now he’s a man, older, weathered, with lines carved at the corners of his mouth. He glances over, eyes catching mine across the distance. The recognition is instant. His chin lifts slightly in acknowledgment, nothing more. No smile, no words. Just a nod before he turns, wipes his hands on a rag, and disappears into the shadow of his garage.

The glass shakes faintly in my hand. Old hurt rises sharp and fast, tangled with disbelief. Of all the places, of all the neighbors, why did it have to be him?

The sight of him lingers long after he’s gone, pulling me backward whether or not I want it. A flash of satin pink, the prom dress hanging on my closet door runs through my head. The phone ringing once, twice, then silence. My father’s voice, sharp as a whip, followed by the slam of a door that rattled the entie=re house.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the porch rail until the wood bites into my palms. The past presses close, but I shove it back down. Not now. Not yet.

Still, I know it’s waiting. And I won’t be able to outrun it forever.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix