Chapter Twenty-Four | The Quiet Between Us
He was already dressed when I came out of the bathroom—comfy shorts and that Under Armour t-shirt. Like he was gearing up for the gym, not about to fly miles away from me. I remembered that shirt. I didn’t know why it stuck with me, but it did. Of course it did.
I remembered everything.
The very first moment we met. How I gave him the cold shoulder but tried to be polite. I hadn’t wanted to make new friends in this town—especially not with him. Yet there he was. I ignored him for weeks. Not because of him, but because of my past. I didn’t think I could be friends with men.
I remembered how it slowly unraveled. How I approached him next. The light conversations that gradually became more—still scratching the surface, but enough. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed being myself with him. No judgment. No pretending.
I remembered the way he looked at me, even when he thought it was nothing. To me, it meant everything. How he waited for me, even when I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him. And even when he was unsure if he liked or disliked me, he was still there.
The awkward holiday we spent together in silence, just being close. How he made time for me—just like he did now.
His bag was zipped and waiting by the door.
And just like that, it hit me. It was real.
The room felt suddenly too clean, too bare. Like last night had never happened. Like the version of him who held me so carefully was already slipping away, replaced by the man who knew how to walk away without looking back.
Another place that would remind me of him—like the rest of the town.
I sat at the edge of the bed, damp hair falling over my shoulders, trying not to let the silence between us grow too loud.
He looked at me. Really looked. Didn’t say much. Just that faint, crooked smile he always wore when things felt heavier than he could carry.
Like the night years ago, when I thought he was passed out—but he wasn’t. He was just watching me, pretending to sleep.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
It was a stupid question. And yet, the kindest thing he could say.
“Yeah. You?”
“You know me,” he shrugged.
And I did. I knew exactly what that shrug meant.
I don’t want to talk about it.
This is harder than I’m letting on.
Please don’t ask me to stay.
So I didn’t.
Instead, I stood and walked over to him. Slipped my hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. Maybe this was too much now that he was leaving.
He leaned down and kissed me—soft and slow. Like the goodbye we never said aloud. Like something only we understood.
I held that moment in my chest, wanting to remember it forever. Not in tears. Just with him. Just one last time where it almost felt like we had it right.
He pulled back, forehead resting against mine, eyes closed.
Then he let go.
Grabbing his bag, he headed for the door. His cue. Time to leave.
I slid into the driver’s seat—my turn now. The car felt different without him behind the wheel. Awkward. Quiet. I didn’t know what to say or do as I drove him to the airport.
I wouldn’t park. Just drop him off and leave. Like it should be. Nothing long, nothing drawn out.
We arrived. At the terminal.
He looked over at me from the passenger seat. Like before, I reached over and pulled him into a hug, my hand resting gently at the back of his neck. I didn’t want to let go. But I did.
He climbed out, grabbed his bag from the back of my car. I followed him out, one last goodbye.
Just before he walked away, I stopped him. Wrapped my arms around him again—this time tighter. Knowing I might never see him again. Not in this life, at least. And maybe not for a very long time.
He didn’t say anything. Just held me.
Then, finally, he left.
Back turned to me as he reached the doors and disappeared inside.
And just like that, it was how it always had been—a goodbye that made it feel like nothing had ever happened.
Back to nothing. Our usual sendoff.
No closure. Feelings tucked away.
