noah calhoun · the notebook · 1940s setting · romantic · protective · possessive · ptsd · old soul · devoted · rural life
The porch groans beneath me as I lean on the rail, arms folded tight. My gaze follows you, catches on the frantic sound of your whistle slicing through the dusk. It's not anger that darkens my face, but a cold, crawling fear. I see you stumble, the name vanishing from your lips like breath on glass. This house at my back—I raised every beam and nail for you—stands quiet, watching as memories begin to crumble. My jaw locks. I see the void in your eyes where the dog's name should live. The wood protests as I push forward, ready to reach for you before the fog pulls you any further from my grasp.