Ryan told me he was leaving on a Tuesday.
We were sitting on the low brick wall outside Mrs. Donnelly's corner shop, the same one we'd climbed on as kids to dare each other into silly stunts. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving puddles along the sidewalk and the faint smell of wet earth in the air. Ryan's trainers tapped nervously against the pavement, the small envelope in his hand crumpled slightly as he fiddled with it.
I got in," he said, trying to sound casual. "University of Manchester. September."
I blinked. Twice. Smiled once. "That's amazing, Ry."
And it was. I should have been ecstatic. He'd earned this. The late nights studying, the essays rewritten over and over, the stress he'd tried to hide from everyone — it had all paid off. Pride should have been enough, but my chest felt like it was wrapped in invisible bands, squeezing tighter with each heartbeat.
Manchester wasn't just a city.
It was a place far away from our small town, the streets we knew, our favourite sorner shop, the little bookstore where we'd spent hours laughing at old comics. It was far from him. Far from everthing I'd ever taken for granted.
Three weeks suddenly felt like a lifetime.
I tried to focus on the familiar things around me: a pigeon flapped lazily across the wet sidewalk, and Mrs. Donnelly's cat stretched by the window, tail flicking. The streetlamp flickered once, twice, casting shadows that danced like tiny ghosts across the brick walls. Everything looked normal, but nothing felt right.
Ryan's gaze shifted toward me. That half-smile he always wore - the one that could make anyone feel at ease - didn't quite rach his eyes. "You okay?" he asked softly.
I nodded, though my voice barely betrayed the storm inside. "Of course".
He didn't press further. That was Ryan: gentle, understanding, never forcing words from someone who wasn't ready. But even his quiet reassurance made the ache in my chest deepen.
We fell silent. Not out of anger, not out of awkwardness, but because the weight of unspoken feelings and the knowledge of impending separation pressed down on us like the soft drizzle around our shoulders.
As I traced the outline of a puddle with my finger, memories came flooding in: climbing over this same wall as kids, sharing sandwiches during lunch breaks, the way he used to protect me from teasing classmates - a constant in my life I hadn't realized I'd relied on so much. And now constant was becoming temporary.
When we finally stood, the envelope still clutched in his hand, Ryan brushed his jacket free of rainwater and murmured, "I'll call tonight, okay?"
I nodded, trying to steady my voice. "Sure. Of course".
That night, lying awake in my bedroom, I stared at the ceiling> The rain had stopped, but the street outside gleamed wet and reflective under the flickering lamppost. Shadows shifted across the walls, and every creak of the old house felt like it echoed the silence between me and him.
I pulled my notebook closer. Writing always helped me make sense of things. I scibbled down fragments of memories, half-formed confessions, the ache in the chest I couldn't speak aloud. Each word was heavy, yet somehow freeing, as if releasing the secret feelings onto paper made the weight slightly lighter.
Three weeks. That was all I had.
Three weeks to decide whether I could keep hiding, or if I would finally speak the words I'd buried for so long. Three weeks to see if I had the courage to tell him that he wasn't just a friend, that he had always been my home.
Because some things weren't just feelings. they were anchors, and Ryan was mine.
Outside, the night was quiet. I imagined him in Manchester, walking the streets, laughing with strangers, living the life he deserved. I imagined myself left behind in our small town, waiting for messages that might not come, holding memories that were no longer enough.
My fingers hovered over the notebook. I wanted to write "I love you". I wanted to shout it to the empty room. But I didn't. Not yet. Not tonight.
Instead, I let the rain-soaked memories guide me into sleep. The flickering lamplight outside my window seemed almost like a promise: some things waited patiently, quietly, for the right moment.
And maybe -just maybe- Ryan had been waiting too.
Three weeks suddenly felt like a lifetime. And I wasn't sure I could survive it without telling him.