The road stretched on like a long, dark ribbon, and he kept the wheel steady, the engine humming softly under his hands. He hadn’t slept since the morning before, but it didn’t matter. The road didn’t care. Neither did the city ahead, its lights flickering in the distance, rising from the black desert like a mirage.

​

​Las Vegas.

​

​He passed through the outer edges first—the cheap motels, the neon signs buzzing with something between hope and exhaustion. He had been here once before, many years ago. That was when he met her. That was when he fell in love. And that was where she vanished from his life without warning, leaving him with a city full of memories and no answers. Now, for some reason, he was back.

​

​He parked and checked into a hotel with too many floors and too much glass, where everything was designed to make you forget what time it was. Maybe that was the point. He signed his name at the desk, took the key, and rode the elevator up, watching the numbers climb.

​

​The room was the kind where people came to disappear. Big window, big bed, a minibar full of regret. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The city glowed outside, bright and indifferent. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes, listening to the silence that stretched out beside him.

​

​He needed a drink.

​

​The bar was dim; it was a place where men sat alone and no one asked why. He took a stool, ordered a tall gin, and let the ice clink against the glass as he lifted it. It burned just enough.

​

​There was music, but it was slow and low, something from long ago he couldn’t place. The bartender had seen men like him before. He didn’t ask questions.

​

​A woman sat a few stools down, dark hair, long legs crossed at the ankle. She laughed at something the man beside her said, and for a moment, he thought it was her.

​

​But it wasn’t. It never was.

​

​He turned back to his drink.

​

​Somewhere in the city, she was gone. Maybe she was walking down the strip with someone new. Maybe she was in another town, another life. But in this city, her ghost still accompanied him, just close enough that he could feel it, just far enough away that he couldn't reach it.

​

​He finished his drink and ordered another tall one.

​

​He walked through the streets, hands in his pockets, letting the night swallow him. People moved past him in laughter and light, tourists clinging to each other, gamblers chasing something they’d never find.

​

​He had once been one of them.

​

​He passed the places they had gone together. The old casino where she had played roulette, smiling with a little hope every time the ball spun. The small chapel they had laughed about but never walked into. The café where they had sat in the early hours of morning, her fingers tracing patterns on his hand.

​

​It was all still there. But she wasn’t.

​

​A girl brushed past him on the sidewalk, dark eyes meeting his for a split second, and for the briefest moment, he thought—

​

​No.

​

​He turned away, headed back to the room, his head heavy with gin and sad memories.

​

​The sheets were cold, and the city didn’t sleep. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the air conditioning, the faint sound of sirens somewhere far below.

​

​He closed his eyes and saw her.

​

​The way she had looked at him, once. The way she had laughed, tilting her head back just slightly. The way she had walked away.

​

​He turned over, but the bed was empty.

​

​He reached for the bottle and poured another drink.

​

​The morning came, but he didn’t meet it. He sat in the chair by the window, the glass still in his hand, the city rolling on without him.

​

​He thought about leaving. Getting in the car and driving until the road ran out. But he knew he wouldn’t. Not yet.

​

​He looked out at the lights fading in the dawn and whispered her name once, just to see if it still meant anything.

​

​The city didn’t answer.

​

​And neither did she.

​

LOST VEGAS - Part Two

 

His cell phone buzzed on the table just as the sun finally surrendered to the lights of the strip.

​

He stared at it for a long moment, the way you look at something you’re afraid to touch. The tall glass of gin beside it was empty now, the ice long melted, the room smelling faintly of booze and stale air. He hadn’t planned on checking his messages. He hadn’t planned on much of anything.

​

Another buzz.

​

He reached for the phone, his hands clumsy, eyes tired.

​

Unknown Number.

​

For a second, he almost ignored it. Las Vegas was full of unknown numbers. Promoters. Escorts. Strangers who mistook you for someone else. It was a city that thrived on confusion.

​

Then he read it.

​

I saw you tonight. On the Strip. I almost didn’t believe it was you.

A lot of time has passed, I know.

If you’re willing… meet me at the Vista Cocktail Lounge at Caesars Palace. Midnight. I’ll explain what happened to me.

​

He was suddenly breathless.

​

He read it again. And again.

​

There was no name attached, but it didn’t need one. Some truths arrive already fully formed, slipping past doubt before it can raise its defenses.

​

It was Laura, it had to be.

​

His heart started pounding in a way it hadn’t in years—too fast, too loud, like it might betray him. He set the phone down, stood, paced the length of the room, then sat again. Midnight was hours away. Enough time for hope to rot into fear.

​

Enough time to leave.

​

He considered it. Grabbing his keys, walking out, letting the road swallow him again. It would be easier than reopening something that had never properly closed. Easier than seeing her face and learning that the version he had loved no longer existed or never did.

​

The city outside flickered on, unapologetic.

​

At eleven forty-five, he was in the elevator, watching the numbers descend, his reflection pale in the mirrored walls. He hadn’t changed much. Clean shirt. Dark jacket. Older eyes.

​

Caesars Palace was all marble and gold, pretending at permanence. He walked through the casino floor, past the clatter of chips and the chiming of machines, each sound echoing too loudly in his chest.

​

The Vista Cocktail Lounge sat above it all, glass walls looking out over the strip. At night, it felt suspended between earth and sky.

​

She was already there.

​

He knew her instantly—not because she hadn’t changed, but because something essential hadn’t. Her hair was shorter now, her face sharper in places where softness used to live. There was a gravity to her posture, a quiet caution in the way she held herself.

​

She looked up.

​

For a moment, neither of them moved.

​

Then she stood.

​

“Hi,” she said.

​

It was the same voice. Quieter, maybe. But unmistakable.

​

He swallowed. “Hi.”

​

They stood there, suspended in the years between them, until she gestured toward the table.

​

“Sit with me?”

​

He nodded and took the chair across from her. Up close, he could see the tiredness she wore like something she’d learned to live with. He could also see the relief—fragile, trembling—behind her eyes.

​

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said.

​

“I almost didn’t,” he answered honestly.

​

She smiled, faintly. “That would’ve made sense.”

​

They ordered drinks they barely touched at first.

​

“I saw you last night,” she said. “You were walking alone. You looked… lost.”

​

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Yep, that obvious, huh?”

​

“I would’ve known you anywhere,” she said. Then, after a pause, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back here.”

​

“I didn’t think you’d ever disappear,” he said gently.

​

Her hands tightened around the glass.

​

“I owe you an explanation,” she said. “Not because you asked for one—but because you deserved it all those years ago.”

​

He waited.

​

She looked out the window, at the endless river of headlights below.

​

“When I met you, I wasn’t who you thought I was,” she said. “Not completely. I wanted to be. God, I wanted that life with you so badly. But I was already owned.”

​

The word landed hard.

​

“I was a call girl,” she continued, voice steady now, practiced. “Not the Hollywood version. Not glamorous at all. It was a system. A man who controlled everything—where I lived, who I saw, what I did. There was no escape clause. No door you could just walk out of.”

​

He felt his chest tighten, anger flaring and hurt, but he said nothing.

​

“You were… different,” she said. “You were so real and honest. And that terrified me. Because loving you meant risking everything. And if he’d found out—”

​

She shook her head. “You don’t survive that kind of mistake.”

​

“So you ran,” he said quietly.

​

“I disappeared,” she corrected. “Because leaving you was the only way I could protect you. And myself.”

​

Silence stretched between them, heavy but honest.

​

“Why now?” he asked.

​

She took a breath. “He’s dead. Not long ago. Some deal gone wrong, I heard. I don’t know the details. I don’t want to. I just know that for the first time since I was very young… no one owns me.”

​

She looked at him then, really looked at him.

​

“And I realized I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Believe it or not.”

​

His eyes burned.

​

“I spent years thinking you just—walked away,” he said. “I thought I wasn’t enough.”

​

“You were everything,” she said. “That was the problem.”

​

They sat there as midnight long passed, the city pulsing beneath them, two people finally understanding the truth they’d been denied.

​

“I don’t expect anything from you at all,” she said softly. “I just needed you to know. And… if there’s any part of you that could ever forgive me—”

​

He reached across the table, tentative, and covered her hand with his.

​

She flinched at first.

​

Not away—just a reflex, the kind learned from years of bracing for the wrong kind of touch. Then she realized it was him, really him, and her fingers curled instinctively into his. Her breath hitched, and she looked down as if ashamed of the reaction.

​

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

​

“For what?” he asked, though he knew.

​

“For everything,” she said. “For vanishing. For letting you believe you were disposable. For not being brave enough to explain. I told myself it was mercy. That it was cleaner. But I was wrong.”

​

He didn’t let go of her hand. Didn’t tighten his grip either. Just stayed there, present.

​

“I spent years very angry,” he admitted. “Angry at you. At myself. I replayed every conversation, every night we spent, looking for the moment I failed you. Wondering what I missed.”

​

Her lips trembled. “You didn’t miss anything. I hid it well. I had to.”

​

His jaw tightened. The anger rose then, sharp and sudden, surprising even him.

​

“Do you know what it does to someone,” he said quietly, “to be erased like that? One day you’re starting to plan a future, and the next you’re pretending the past never happened just so you can breathe.”

​

She nodded, tears finally spilling over. She didn’t quickly wipe them away. For once, she let them fall.

​

“I went numb,” she said. “For years. I learned how not to feel. How to smile without meaning it. How to survive by shutting everything down. But every time I closed my eyes, it was you I saw. Not the life I was trapped in. You.”

​

The bartender came by. He ordered another gin. She hesitated, then nodded. “Whatever you’re having.”

​

They drank. Slowly. Carefully. As if too much honesty too fast might break something fragile between them.

​

“I loved you,” she said, voice breaking. “I loved you when loving anyone was dangerous. And when I left, it felt like I was dying. But I didn’t know how to be with you without destroying you.”

​

His eyes burned again. “You should’ve trusted me.”

​

“I know,” she said. “God, I know. But fear is louder than reason when someone else controls your life.”

​

He leaned back, rubbing his face with his free hand. The relief crept in alongside the anger—relief that she hadn’t left because he was lacking something, relief that the story he’d told himself for years wasn’t true.

​

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said honestly. “Part of me wants to pull you close and never let go. Another part wants to scream at you for making me grieve for someone who was still alive.”

​

She nodded again. “I deserve that.”

​

He looked at her. Really looked. Not the memory. Not the ghost. The woman who had survived something so brutal and was still sitting here, still choosing honesty.

​

“I don’t want to punish you,” he said. “But I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt.”

​

“I don’t want pretending,” she said. “I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

​

She took another sip, then laughed softly through her tears. “This is the most emotion I’ve felt in years. Tonight is the first time in a very long time I feel human again.”

​

“That scares me,” he said.

​

“Me too,” she admitted. “But it also feels like freedom.”

​

They talked then—not in grand declarations, but in fragments. About the years apart. The lives they’d tried to build. The loneliness that lingered even in crowded rooms. The way love doesn’t vanish just because circumstances force it underground.

​

“I don’t expect you to save me,” she said. “I need to learn how to stand on my own. I just… hoped you might still see me. Not as who I was forced to be—but as who I am.”

​

“I do,” he said. “I always did.”

​

The bar thinned out as the night wore on. Glasses clinked softly. The city glowed endlessly below them, uncaring but beautiful all the same.

​

When they finally stood, there was no dramatic moment. No kiss. No promises whispered too soon.

​

Just two people stepping carefully into the night together.

​

Outside, the air was warm. She wrapped her arms around herself, and this time, when he placed his jacket over her shoulders, she didn’t flinch.

​

“I’m leaving Vegas,” she said quietly. “Soon. I can’t try and heal here.”

​

“I didn’t come here to remain,” he said softly. “I came here to try and let someone go but then I found her.”

​

She smiled. A real one. Fragile, but real.

​

“Maybe,” she said, “we could try and find a way forward together. See where the road goes.”

​

He looked at her—at the woman he had lost, and the woman standing before him now.

​

“Yeah maybe,” he said.

​

They walked on, not holding hands, but close enough that their arms brushed now and then. Enough to know they weren’t alone anymore.

​

Behind them, Las Vegas glittered on, already forgetting their names.

 

Ahead of them, the road waited—not as a promise, but as a chance.

 

Written by Mark Gammill

​

​​​

________________________________________

​

​

Lost Vegas  (Poem)

 

Verse 1

Driving all night

I can see the city lights, 

reminding me of you,

wanting someone to hold on to,

like you and I were, missing her.

 

Verse 2

Checking into a room,

many stories above, lost without love

darkness surrounds, what can I do,

nothing's the same without you.

 

Chorus

In Lost Vegas

here I am looking for you,

your ghost still haunts me

I wish it’d break through

I just want to see you again

no matter what, no matter when.

 

Verse 3

Bar lights low, I wish I could go

where she is, out in the street,

the world is a stranger,

not the way we were, I still care for her.

 

Verse 4 

I see her eyes, no its someone else,

reminding of how I always felt,

such a foolish heart, so far from home,

back to the room, but not alone,

with memory of the truest love

I cannot hold.

 

Verse 5

Gin, my fateful friend,

drinking all night again till the light of day,

I know its not the way, but letting go of you,

is so hard to do, with so much left to say. 

​

Written by Mark Gammill