We planned the future like it was something we could bargain with. Not in big, dramatic ways. No grand speeches about forever. Just small, stubborn things.
“Same place?” she asked once, tracing circles into my palm.
“Same place,” I agreed.
“Even when we’re old and annoying?”
“We’re already annoying.”
“Speak for yourself.” I smiled.
“I am.” She rolled her eyes, but her hand tightened around mine like she needed the promise to stick. We always made promises like that. Casual. Unbreakable.
The day it happens doesn’t feel important. That’s the worst part. No warning music. No sense of ending. Just sunlight spilling through the window too early, her complaining about it, me refusing to get up.
“You said we’d go today,” she reminds me, nudging my shoulder.
“I said we might go.”
“You said we would.”
“That sounds like something you assumed.” She sits up, hair a mess, eyes narrowed.
“You’re insufferable in the morning.”
“And yet,” I say, reaching for her wrist and pulling her back down, “you stay.”
“Barely.” But she doesn’t pull away. She never really does.
We leave later than we meant to. We always do. The world outside feels too bright, like it’s trying too hard to be noticed. She squints up at the sky, then looks at me.
“Race you,” she says suddenly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Coward.”
“I just don’t feel like losing today.”
“You always feel like losing.”
“Wow. That’s rude.” She’s already running. I watch her for half a second before sighing and following, because of course I do. I always follow.
We end up at the place we always choose when we don’t choose anything at all. A stretch of road just outside the noise of everything. Not empty, but quieter. Enough space to hear yourself think, if you wanted to. We don’t. We talk instead. About nothing. About everything. About things that won’t matter tomorrow and things that will.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” she asks, kicking a loose stone across the pavement.
“Leaving what?”
“All of this.” I glance around.
“This very exciting road?”
“You know what I mean.” I do. I just pretend not to sometimes.
“Not really,” I say. “I like it here.”
“Why?” I shrug.
“You’re here.” She looks at me like that should be enough.It is.
We start walking again, slower this time. Her shoulder bumps mine every few steps, not by accident.
“Hey,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“If something ever happened—”
“No,” I cut in immediately.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no.” She laughs softly.
“You can’t just reject hypothetical situations.”
“Watch me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She stops walking. I take a few more steps before realizing, then turn back.
She’s watching me in that quiet, steady way.
“Just listen,” she says. I hesitate. Then nod.
“Okay.” She takes a breath.
“If something ever happened to me… I’d want you to keep going.” I frown.
“Why do you sound like you’re narrating a sad movie?”
“I’m not. I just—” She struggles for the words. “I don’t want you to get stuck.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t,” I insist. She raises an eyebrow. “…Okay, maybe a little,” I admit.
“A lot,” she corrects gently. I try to make a joke, but it doesn’t land. Something about this feels off. Too heavy for a day that started with sunlight and teasing.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I say instead. She nods. But she doesn’t look convinced.
There’s a moment. Small. Forgettable. The kind that doesn’t announce itself as anything special. She steps off the edge of the road, turning to say something, then I hear it. A sound that doesn’t belong in the quiet. Loud. Fast. Wrong. Everything after that stretches. Time doesn’t slow down the way people say it does. It fractures. I see her expression change before I understand why. I see her mouth form my name. I see—
And then I’m on the ground. It’s strange. There’s no pain at first. Just confusion. Like waking up somewhere unfamiliar without remembering how you got there. The sky is above me. Too blue. Too wide. I blink, trying to piece things together.
“Hey,” I say, because that’s what you say when things don’t make sense. “Hey, what—” She’s there. Of course she is. She’s always there. But something’s wrong. She’s kneeling beside me, her hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch me.
“No, no, no—” she’s saying, over and over, like if she gets the rhythm right it’ll fix something.
“Hey,” I repeat, a little sharper. “I’m fine. What happened?” She shakes her head violently. “You’re okay,” I tell her, pushing myself up slightly. “Look, I’m right here.” Her face crumples. That’s new. She doesn’t cry like this. Not ever. “Why are you crying?” I ask. No answer. Just that same broken repetition:
“No, no, no—”
I reach for her. My hand passes through hers. I freeze.
“…Okay,” I say slowly. I try again. Same result. Like she’s made of something I can’t quite reach. “Stop messing around,” I tell her, forcing a laugh. “That’s not funny.” She doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem to hear me. My chest tightens. Or at least, I think it does. “Hey,” I say, louder now. “Hey. Look at me.” Nothing. She’s looking somewhere else. Not at me. Past me.
I turn. And for a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing. It’s just a shape. A person. On the ground. Still. Wrong. Familiar. Too familiar.
“Oh,” I say. The word barely exists. Everything clicks into place all at once. The sound. The way she said my name. The way the world feels slightly out of reach. The way she isn’t looking at me. “I’m not—” I start. But I don’t finish. Because I don’t know how the sentence ends. I’m not okay. I’m not standing. I’m not—
She finally speaks my name again. But this time, it’s directed at the body on the ground. Not me. Never me. I look back at her. At the way she’s breaking. At the way her hands finally press against something solid— just not me.
“I’m right here,” I say. It comes out desperate. Useless. “I’m right here.” She doesn’t hear me. And that’s when it happens. Not all at once. Not like a switch flipping. But like something quietly letting go. The edges of everything start to soften again. The same way they did this morning. I look at her one last time. Memorizing, the way she always did. The way I never thought I’d need to. “Same place,” I whisper. Even though I don’t know if promises work like that anymore.
She bends over the body, shoulders shaking, holding onto something that isn’t me. And for the first time all day, I understand. I’m not going to follow her this time. The light pulls gently. The world loosens its grip. And just before everything slips completely, I try once more.
“I love you.”
She doesn’t hear it. But I say it anyway. Then I let go.
