Goodbye
612 Words
The morning I left for New York, the sky was overcast. Heavy clouds hung above the highway like the sky itself didn’t want to let go. My parents loaded the last suitcase into the trunk while I stood in the driveway, waiting.
He said he’d come.
Minutes passed. My phone stayed quiet. My heart did not.
Then—headlights. That beat-up black Mustang pulled into view like a ghost from a dream. He parked crooked, killed the engine, and got out without a word.
Jace.
His hair was damp, like he’d run through rain. His hoodie clung to his frame, and his eyes—those impossible gray eyes—were locked on me.
“I almost didn’t come,” he said.
I swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Because if I saw you, I might not let you go.”
We stood inches apart. My parents waited quietly by the car, watching but not interfering.
I reached for his hand. “You don’t have to let go. Just hold on from a distance.”
He pulled something from his pocket. A dog tag on a thin chain. I recognized it immediately—it had been hanging from his rearview mirror for months. Something old and worn, from a cousin who’d served overseas.
He pressed it into my palm.
“For luck,” he said. “And so you don’t forget me.”
I blinked away tears. “You’re impossible to forget.”
He leaned in and kissed me—soft and slow and trembling with everything he couldn’t say. When we pulled apart, he whispered, “I’ll be waiting.”
And then I was gone.
22. City Lights, Ghost Hearts
New York was everything I imagined—loud, bright, alive. I buried myself in books and lectures and people who didn’t know me. But late at night, I found myself tracing the edge of that dog tag, remembering the feel of his hand in mine, the way he said my name like a prayer.
We talked—calls, texts, long emails full of half-finished thoughts and old inside jokes. He told me about his auto classes. I told him about the view from my dorm window. It wasn’t the same. But it was something.
And we held onto it.
Seasons passed. So did loneliness.
But I never stopped hoping.
23. Two Years Later
I came home for the summer after sophomore year. Columbia had drained me. I needed air, quiet, memories.
He wasn’t at the house when I got back. Wasn’t waiting in the driveway. Part of me worried he’d moved on.
Until I went to the old train tracks.
And there he was.
Sitting on the hood of a newer car now—sleek, silver, clean. He looked different. Taller, maybe. More confident. But those eyes were still the same.
“You came back,” he said.
“You waited.”
“Always.”
And then we were in each other’s arms again, laughter and tears tangled into one.
“You look good,” I said.
“You look like my future,” he replied.
We didn’t say “I love you.”
We didn’t have to.
24. Epilogue: Wreck Me Gently
Some loves are storms. Wild, beautiful, dangerous.
Ours was a hurricane with a heartbeat. It tore us down and rebuilt us in better shapes.
He wasn’t perfect. I never wanted him to be.
He was real. Raw. Broken in all the right places. And somehow, he helped me find the cracks in my own armor.
They said he’d wreck me.
He did.
But what they didn’t know—
Was that I wanted him to.
And he rebuilt me too.
- Writer
