Chapter 5: The Last Goodbye (The last part). By Mayank Singla
923 Words
We were never perfect.
Not from the beginning.
She mocked me. I was scared of her.
Somehow, we carved out something real from the mess.
But life has a way of turning just when you start to feel steady.
⸻
It started with a rumor.
“Did you hear Lily’s dropping out?”
I heard it outside the canteen. Just casual gossip tossed around with chai and samosas.
“No way,” someone said. “She’s too wild for this place, but she wouldn’t quit.”
“She got into some art school in Paris,” another voice replied. “Full scholarship.”
My heart stopped.
Paris?
Dropping out?
I hadn’t heard a word from her.
And when I messaged her — no reply.
When I called — it rang, but went unanswered.
She hadn’t ghosted me like last time.
This was different.
This felt like a full-on vanishing act.
⸻
Three days passed.
Then four.
On the fifth day, I couldn’t take it anymore.
So I went looking for her.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Like some desperate rom-com character who thinks walking around campus will magically lead him to the girl he’s fallen for.
It was stupid.
But it worked.
I found her in the old media room. Same beanbag. Same hoodie. Same headphones.
Except this time, she looked up before I even said a word.
“Hey, college boy,” she said softly.
The name hit me harder than it should have.
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
She didn’t pretend. Didn’t play dumb.
“Yeah,” she said. “Got accepted into the École des Beaux-Arts.”
“Paris?”
She nodded.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Her eyes fell to the floor. “I wasn’t.”
I sat down opposite her. Not angry. Just… tired.
“Why?”
She exhaled. “Because this place — you — everything here… it’s starting to feel real. And I wasn’t supposed to stay.”
I didn’t understand.
So she explained.
⸻
“My parents divorced when I was twelve,” she said quietly. “They used to fight a lot. I learned early that nothing good ever lasts.”
I stayed silent.
“I changed schools three times. Learned to be funny before people could hurt me. Learned to be mean before they could leave.”
“And then you came here,” I said.
She nodded. “And I found this annoying, rule-following nerd who actually listened. And worse, stayed.”
“That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is,” she whispered.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admitted, hating how my voice cracked.
“I know.”
She looked at me. Really looked.
“And that’s exactly why I have to.”
⸻
We sat in silence.
The kind of silence where you both know it’s over, even if no one’s said it yet.
Then she leaned in and pulled something from her hoodie pocket.
It was a folded paper.
“I started writing this the day I found out I got accepted,” she said. “But I never finished it.”
I unfolded it carefully.
There were only six words:
“You made me believe in more.”
⸻
I didn’t cry.
Not then.
Instead, I said the only thing I could:
“I’m proud of you.”
She smiled, and for the first time, her eyes were full of water.
“I’m scared, Sid,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“I’ve never done anything without pushing people away first.”
“Well,” I said, “you pushed me. And I’m still here.”
That broke her.
She reached across and took my hand.
“I’m gonna miss you so much, nerd.”
“You’ll do great things,” I said.
She laughed through tears. “What if I mess it all up?”
“Then you’ll make art about it.”
⸻
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t promise to write letters or call every night or stay soulmates forever.
We just held hands for a long time in that empty room, surrounded by film posters and memories.
Because some people don’t need a perfect ending.
They just need a moment that felt real.
⸻
The day she left, I walked her to the gate.
Her suitcase rattled behind her. The sun was too bright. The campus felt too quiet.
“I always thought college would be about degrees and jobs and big dreams,” I said.
“And?”
“It was about you.”
She didn’t say anything.
But she stood on her toes and kissed my cheek.
Then she got into the cab, rolled down the window, and said the last thing I ever heard from her in person:
“Goodbye, college boy.”
⸻
It’s been a year now.
I still sit in that media room sometimes.
Still check the doodles in my notebook.
Still listen to that one slow, soft song she played on the rooftop.
She sends postcards sometimes.
One-liners. Sketches. A photo of her at the Eiffel Tower once.
But we haven’t called. Haven’t FaceTimed. Haven’t tried to turn this into a long-distance maybe.
And that’s okay.
Because Lily was never meant to be a forever.
She was meant to be a change.
A disruption.
A memory I’ll carry with me when I graduate, when I fall in love again, when I tell stories about the girl who used to bully me, then stole my heart.
⸻
The End.
- Writer
