JOHN MARSTON

The crackling fire in the fireplace filled the cabin with warmth and dancing shadows. You leaned against the wooden wall, your eyes fixed on the flickering light, thinking about John. He was there, a few steps away, fiddling with the guns on the table as if it were all routine, as if nothing had happened. But for you, every moment with him had been anything but ordinary.

You remembered every gesture, every word whispered on cold nights, when he held you by the shoulders and told you that you were his girl, as if you were his whole world. You kept those little moments in your memory as if they were gold, but now they were mixed with frustration, longing, and the pain of realizing that he never really stayed. John always left, always had somewhere to go, some work to do, and you stayed there, waiting for him like someone waiting for a star that never shines completely.

You sighed and tears began to flow silently. It wasn't just sadness, it was a mixture of love, abandonment, desire, and frustration. You felt beautiful when you cried, because every tear that fell seemed like a testament to how much you cared, how much he meant to you, even if he hardly noticed. And yet, you couldn't completely blame him. John was who he was, free, untamable, someone who couldn't be restrained by your hands or words.

He finally turned, noticing your expression. His eyes, normally steady and serious, softened for a moment. He approached, his steps slow, and you could smell gunpowder mixed with earth and horses, his scent that always comforted and burned you at the same time.

"Hey... are you okay?" he said, his voice low, drawn out, but firm, trying to decipher the sadness you were trying to hide. "You know I... I don't stay away because I want to. It's not about you, it never was."