"I'll take admission in a local college for now," I said, keeping my voice low. "It's only a year apart. After that… I'll be with you."
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and for a moment, relief softened her features.
"Only a year?" she asked softly, clutching my hand like it was a lifeline.
"Yes. Just a year," I lied again, forcing a small smile.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, and I let her, because hope, no matter how fragile, was easier than the pain of goodbye.
The room fell quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and I allowed myself to pretend that maybe the distance wouldn't break us.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The doorbell rang just as I was stacking the last of the coffee mugs in the sink. I wiped my hands and opened the door to find Lena standing there, her small suitcase at her side, eyes bright but heavy with unshed tears.
"Hey," she said softly. "I wanted to see Grandma before I leave."
I stepped aside, letting her pass, and she made a beeline for the kitchen where Grandma was sitting, sewing quietly. The moment she saw Lena, her face lit up, lines of worry softening.
"Lena, my dear! Come here!" Grandma pulled her into a warm embrace, holding her like she could somehow stitch her safety into her bones.
Lena pressed her face into Grandma's shoulder, whispering so only she could hear:
"Please call me if Ash ever hides something again. He always thinks he has to save everyone alone."
Grandma's fingers tightened around Lena's hands, her voice thick with emotion: "I promise, child. I'll keep a close eye on him. I've always known he carries too much on his own."
I stood in the doorway, silent, watching. Both of them: my grandmother and Lena, who loved me fiercely, already anticipating the cracks I might fall into. I felt my chest tighten, caught between pride and helplessness.
Lena pulled back from the hug, pressing something small into Grandma's hand. Grandma looked down to see a handmade bookmark, decorated with tiny sketches and faint, hopeful words. She smiled, a bittersweet smile that made my throat ache.
"You've got your work cut out, Grandma," Lena whispered. Then, glancing toward me, her eyes softened. "Take care of him, okay?"
Grandma nodded, brushing a stray tear from her cheek.
I stayed frozen, feeling the weight of their concern. They didn't know about the prophecy, about the darkness I carried, but even without that, they knew enough to worry.
Lena gave me one last look before turning toward the door. I wanted to reach out, to stop her, but I stayed silent, letting her leave on her own terms.
The sound of her suitcase wheels down the hallway echoed in my chest, and I realized, this was just the beginning of learning how to let go, even when it hurt more than anything.
But then she stopped, turned to me and said, "Let's go somewhere quite. I wanna talk to you."
Well, my house is already quieter than death, but I followed her.
The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the lake and wet grass. Lena and I walked in silence, our footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path, until we reached the treehouse, the place where our summers and secrets and laughter had all begun.
I leaned against the railing, and she did the same, our shoulders almost brushing. For a moment, neither of us spoke, letting the night hold the weight of our thoughts. The stars were scattered thinly across the sky, indifferent to everything that was about to change.
Finally, Lena broke the silence. Her voice was barely above a whisper:
"Promise you'll write."
I looked at her, the familiar warmth of her eyes clashing with the ache in my chest.
"Every week," I said. I didn't promise anything more, didn't say I'd try to be brave enough to keep her close in spirit, even if distance tried to stretch us apart; but I nodded anyway, silently agreeing in my own way.
She smiled, small and bittersweet, and leaned closer. I felt her breath against my cheek. Our lips met softly, hesitant at first, then lingering. Slow, searching, filled with all the things we couldn't say. A kiss that spoke of hope and fear and longing all at once.
We parted slightly, foreheads resting together.
If time had a heart, that night would've been the sound of it breaking.
We stayed there until the moon dipped lower, until our fingers entwined and held on as if we could anchor each other in place. Eventually, we stood, letting the quiet night absorb the weight of our goodbye.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
As we walked back, suitcase and bag in tow, I realized something I hadn't admitted even to myself: the separation felt heavier than any debt, any fear, or any shadow the world could cast. Lena's presence was my anchor, and letting her go, even temporarily, felt like surrendering a piece of myself.
She squeezed my hand once, whispered, "See you soon."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
See you soon. Words that carried both promise and heartbreak.
We reached her car. She climbed in, casting one last glance back at me, smiling bravely. I stayed frozen, watching her leave, feeling the hollow weight of the world settle across my shoulders.
The air smelled faintly of dew and gasoline, a strange mixture of freshness and inevitability. Nate's car gleamed in the driveway, waiting patiently, as if it had known this moment would come. Lena moved with her usual grace, but her hands shook slightly as she hugged Grandma.
"Take care of yourself," she whispered to my Dad, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His eyes were steady, unreadable, but I could feel the tension coiling in his chest.
I hoisted her suitcase onto my shoulder, feeling the weight more acutely than the bag itself.
"Be good," I said, my voice breaking despite my effort to sound casual.
"You too," she replied, gripping my hand one last time. The warmth lingered longer than it should.
She climbed into the car, casting a final glance over her shoulder. I waved until the vehicle rounded the corner, until it disappeared from sight. The street was empty afterward, the silence pressing down harder than the morning sun.
I leaned against the porch railing, stomach knotted. My chest felt hollow, as if losing her had pulled something vital right out of me.
Later that night, I lay in my bed, staring at my phone. Her last text glowed softly on the screen:
"I'll be waiting for you, Ash. Promise me you'll come."
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I typed back:
"I promise."
But the words stayed unsent, frozen there like the echo of my own fear and pride. I couldn't let go, yet I couldn't reach out.
The room was dark, save for the faint light of the phone. Outside, the world carried on, oblivious to the small heartbreak that had settled into the corners of my room.
Had I known what will happen to her in New York, I might have never let her go.