Not Enough Tomorrows

One Last Promise

Three days.

That was all that was left before Noah's flight, and Lena had decided the best way to deal with that fact was to not deal with it at all. She showed up at his house Saturday morning with two rolls of packing tape and a determined look on her face.

"I'm here to help," she announced, letting herself in the way she always did. "And I'm fine, before you ask."

"I wasn't going to ask," Noah said, though the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Good. Because I'm fine."

They spent the morning going through his room, sorting things into piles—keep, donate, throw away. It was slower than either of them expected, mostly because every other item came with a memory attached.

"Oh my god," Lena said, pulling a dusty trophy from the back of his closet. "Third grade spelling bee. You cried when you got second place."

"I did not cry."

"You cried, Noah. I have a very clear memory of you crying."

"I was passionate about spelling."

She laughed, setting the trophy in the keep pile, and for a little while, it felt easy again—the two of them shoulder to shoulder, laughing over old photographs and forgotten keepsakes, every object pulling up some memory neither of them had thought about in years.

Then Lena found the shoebox.

It was tucked beneath a stack of old notebooks, the cardboard soft with age, and when she lifted the lid, she saw dozens of folded papers stacked neatly inside, some yellowed at the edges.

"What's this?" she asked, reaching for one.

Noah's hand shot out, closing the lid before she could unfold it. "Nothing. Just old stuff."

"It looked like a lot of paper for *nothing.*"

"Embarrassing childhood drawings," he said, tucking the box under his arm with a little too much urgency. "Trust me, you don't want to see them."

"Now I definitely want to see them."

"Lena." He gave her a look, something between pleading and amusement. "Let a guy keep some dignity."

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "Fine. Keep your secret terrible drawings."

She believed him. She had no reason not to.

***

That afternoon, they decided to visit their favorite places one last time—an unspoken agreement neither of them had to say out loud.

They started at the beach, walking along the shoreline where they used to build sandcastles as kids, the same stretch of sand where Noah had once buried her feet up to the ankles as a joke.

"Remember when you tried to convince me sand crabs could talk?" Lena asked, stepping over a piece of driftwood.

"You believed me for like a year."

"I was seven!"

They moved on to the old playground next, the swings creaking the same way they always had, the paint on the slide chipped in the same spots. They sat on the swings for a while, not talking much, just letting their feet drag through the dirt.

Later, they climbed up to the rooftop of the old parking garage downtown, the same spot where they used to sneak up to watch meteor showers.

"You'd fall asleep every single time," Lena said, looking out over the town. "I'd be counting shooting stars and you'd just be snoring next to me."

"I was resting my eyes."

"You were unconscious."

They ended the afternoon at the little café on Main Street, the one with the crooked window sign and the booth in the back corner that had unofficially become theirs over the years. They ordered the same drinks they always did, sat in the same seats, and for a while, everything felt completely, painfully ordinary.

Which somehow made it worse.

Lena stared at her cup, tracing the rim with her finger. "This feels like any other Saturday."

"Yeah," Noah said quietly. "It does."

Neither of them said what they were both thinking—that there wouldn't be many more Saturdays like this one, not for a long time.

***

As the sun began to set, they walked back toward Noah's house, the sky bleeding orange and pink above the rooftops. Lena stopped at the front steps and pulled something out of her bag—a small, handmade leather journal, the cover stitched carefully by hand.

"I made this for you," she said, holding it out. "So you don't forget home."

Noah took it slowly, running his thumb over the stitching. "Lena—"

"Don't make it weird," she said, though her voice wavered slightly. "Just write in it. Whatever you want. Just—remember us. Remember this."

He looked down at the journal, something heavy settling behind his eyes. "I'll fill every page," he said quietly.

"Good," she said, smiling even as her throat tightened.

He didn't tell her what he already knew—that he'd fill it with words she'd probably never read, feelings he still hadn't found the courage to say out loud.

***

Standing there on the steps, watching him hold the journal like it mattered more than anything else she could have given him, Lena felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest. A thought rose before she could stop it.

I don't want him to leave.

She pushed it down quickly, telling herself it was simple. Obvious. She was losing her best friend for a while. That was all this was. That was the only reason it hurt this much.

It had to be.

***

That night, alone in his room with boxes stacked against the walls, Noah sat at his desk and opened the old notebook one last time. He picked up his pen and began to write, slower than usual, like he wanted the words to last.

When he finished, he read it over once, then signed the bottom the way he always did.

The boy who will always come looking for you.