Mine Would Be You

John Carter wasn’t a man of many words, but when he spoke, you listened. At least, she always had.

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He stood on the edge of the old dock that jutted out into Clearwater Lake, his boots creaking against the wood, the sunrise bleeding amber across the sky. This place hadn’t changed much since the summer of ’08. The lake still whispered secrets to the shoreline. The weeping willow still leaned in, like it was eavesdropping on the past. And his heart—his heart still knew her.

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June Morgan.

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She'd been seventeen, wild-haired and reckless in a way that made every boy want her and every girl want to be her. John had been eighteen, quiet, grounded, with a drawl that made even her mother smile.

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They were opposites. But that summer, opposites had caught fire.

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He could still hear her laughter echoing in his head—raw, real, unstoppable. Like wind through the wheat fields. Like a heartbeat skipping tracks.

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“What's your all-time high?” she had asked him one night, lying on the roof of his truck beneath a sky peppered with stars.

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He’d turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “You,” he said. “You are, mine would be you.”

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She laughed like she didn’t believe it. But she kissed him like she did.

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Back then, love was easy. It was tangled sheets and Marlboro Reds. It was backroad flying, sunroof open, music too loud. They made up songs, butchered lyrics, danced barefoot in gas station parking lots. Every moment was a memory in the making.

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His favorite one? That stormy August night when they made love for the first time, in the hayloft of his uncle’s barn, while the rain played drums on the tin roof. She cried afterward. Said no one had ever seen her like that before. And he’d whispered, “No one’s ever loved you like I will.”

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And for a while, it was true.

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But time is cruel to young lovers.

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College came calling for June—NYU, a full scholarship. John got the call from his father, said he needed help with the farm. So, while she boarded a plane to New York City, he picked up a shovel and planted roots he never wanted.

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They tried to make it work. Letters, then phone calls. Then just silence.

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One day, she stopped writing. Then she stopped calling. And just like that, she was gone.

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He didn’t blame her. She’d been born to fly. He’d just hoped she might’ve carried him with her.

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Years passed.

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He dated. Almost married once. But “almost” is just another way to say “not her.” Nothing fit the way June had. Nothing burned quite like her memory.

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Then, one gray October morning, John got a letter. Not an email. Not a message. A letter. The kind that smells like old dreams and carries weight no phone ever could.

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It was from June.

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She was coming home—for good.

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Her father had passed, left her the family home on Maple Street. Said she missed the sky. Said she missed him.

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When he saw her again, it was like those years had folded in on themselves. She wore a simple white dress and boots that looked older than the both of them. Her hair was shorter, smile a little sadder.

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“Hey stranger,” she whispered.

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“Hey June,” he replied.

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They talked for hours that day. And every day after. They didn’t call it a second chance. They didn’t need to.

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"But every sunrise has its dusk."

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It was a Tuesday when she told him. A soft day, rain on the windows, soup on the stove.

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“I’m sick, John,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

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He stared at her, not understanding. “Like… sick?”

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“Like… leaving kind of sick.”

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Lymphoma. Stage Four. It had already spread.

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She didn’t want treatment. Didn’t want hospitals and tubes and beeping machines. She wanted mornings on the lake. She wanted peach cobbler and Polaroids and slow dances on the porch.

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She wanted him.

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And he gave her everything.

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They lived in fast-forward. Every day was a gift. He took her fishing at dawn. She painted the barn. He read to her from books she'd loved in college. She wrote him notes and hid them in his pockets.

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And one night, when the world held its breath, he married her beneath the stars—just them, a borrowed minister, and the willow tree that had seen their first kiss.

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He watched her fade like a summer sun—slow, golden, and far too soon.

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When she passed, he held her hand and whispered the same thing he had all those years ago.

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“No one’s ever loved you like I will.”

                                           

Now, standing at the lake, a folded letter in his hand, John felt her everywhere.

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The sun. The wind. The way the dock groaned beneath his weight.

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She’d written him one last letter.

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John,

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If you're reading this, then I guess I’m dancing with the stars by now. Don’t be mad. I just didn’t want to say goodbye with tears in our eyes.

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You were my all-time high. My best day ever. My wildest dream come true. Mine was always you.

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Don’t forget to smile at the willow tree. And kiss someone in the rain. And when you laugh until it hurts, know I’m laughing somewhere too.

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Yours, always and forever,
June

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John sat down, tears tracing the lines of his now weathered face.

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She’d been his double dare. His go-all-in. His best night and his worst hangover ever. The tattoo on his heart.

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And if ever he was asked who was the love of his life?

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That was easy.

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“Mine would be you June,” he whispered to the wind.

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And somewhere, he swore he heard her laugh.

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-Mark Gammill