Chapter 7 : Before We Say Goodbye
1241 Words
Graduation season arrived quietly like the last page of a well-loved book.
Banners hung across the halls of St. Claire Academy, students filled the air with laughter, and yet, beneath all the excitement, there was a feeling of something slipping away.
For Arielle, every morning by the window now carried both warmth and ache.
She still sat in the same spot, still felt the sunlight spill across her desk but now, she knew each moment was a countdown.
Lance sat beside her, sketching absentmindedly. His once-carefree strokes had become slower, more deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every detail before it all disappeared.
One afternoon, as the rain tapped gently on the glass, Arielle asked, “Have you decided where you’ll go after graduation?”
Lance paused. “Manila. Art program.” He glanced at her. “You?”
“Baguio,” she said softly. “Creative writing.”
A small silence stretched between them. Not an awkward one, but a heavy one like both of them were afraid to break it.
“Six hours apart,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly. “That’s not too far.”
He met her gaze. “Far enough to miss you.”
Her heart skipped. “Then we’ll learn to miss each other right.”
The weeks passed faster than either of them expected.
Exams. Yearbook signings. Last-minute projects. And then the day they all had been waiting for.
The graduation ball.
Arielle wasn’t one for parties, but this time, she wanted to go. Not for the dresses, not for the music but for the memory.
When Lance saw her that night, standing at the edge of the ballroom in a simple pale-blue dress, he froze.
“You look like sunlight,” he said without thinking.
She laughed softly. “And you look like trouble.”
He smirked. “Fair trade.”
They danced awkwardly at first, then easily, like two notes finally finding the same rhythm. The world blurred around them, and for that one song, time was kind.
When it ended, they stepped out to the courtyard. The night sky stretched wide, full of stars.
“This feels unreal,” Arielle whispered.
Lance nodded. “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.”
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, rolled canvas tied with a ribbon.
“It’s for you,” he said. “Don’t open it yet.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a goodbye gift,” he said softly. “And I’m not ready for goodbyes tonight.”
A few days later, the graduation ceremony came.
Caps flew into the air, teachers smiled proudly, and families cheered.
Arielle and Lance found each other afterward near the old acacia tree on campus. The same spot where they’d once promised to keep choosing light.
“So,” he said, trying to smile. “This is it.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “This is it.”
He handed her a small notebook his sketchbook, worn at the edges.
“Take it,” he said. “I left something on the last page.”
Arielle opened it carefully. The final sketch was of the two of them, sitting under the acacia tree only this time, they were older, their faces turned toward the sunrise.
Below it, he’d written:
“Some people are not meant to stay forever. Some are meant to change your life and let you grow. Thank you for changing mine.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Lance…”
He smiled gently. “Don’t cry. You taught me how to see light again. That’s forever enough.”
She shook her head. “You don’t get to say goodbye like that.”
He took a deep breath, then pulled her close warm, real, and trembling. “Then I’ll say see you soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
That evening, when Arielle finally opened the canvas he’d given her at the ball, she gasped.
It was the window. Their window.
Only now, the view outside wasn’t gray and rainy it was bright, golden, filled with fields and sunlight.
And on the glass, faintly written in white paint:
“When the light returns, remember me.”
Weeks turned into months.
College began.
New friends, new places, new dreams.
Arielle wrote often, her poems now filled with warmth instead of ache. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d open his sketchbook and trace the lines of his drawings, smiling at the memories hidden there.
Every now and then, a letter would arrive.
Handwritten. Signed in blue ink.
“The city’s loud, but I found a small café that reminds me of the art room. I still paint the sky the way you used to describe it like it’s holding its breath before raining.”
And she’d reply:
“Baguio’s colder than I expected, but I found a tree that blooms pink in spring. It feels like home. Like the kind of silence we used to share.”
A year later, during summer break, she returned to St. Claire.
The classroom was empty now, desks covered in dust. But the window was still there, sunlight spilling across the same old floor.
She sat down by it, smiling.
And then, behind her, a familiar voice said, “I knew you’d come back here.”
She turned.
Lance stood at the door, taller, older, his eyes the same deep brown.
“Did you wait for me?” she asked.
“Always.”
They laughed, that same easy laughter that once filled the air between classes.
He took her hand. “Want to see something?”
Outside, under the acacia tree, a new painting leaned against the trunk.
Two people her and him sitting side by side, sunlight streaming through the window behind them.
At the bottom, written neatly in his handwriting:
“When the storm ends, the light begins again.”
Arielle smiled, tears welling up but heart full.
“Looks like we found our forever after all.”
He smiled back. “Yeah. Just not the kind that ends it’s the kind that keeps growing.”
That evening, as they watched the sunset from their old spot, she wrote one last line in her journal:
Sometimes, love isn’t about holding on.
Sometimes, it’s about finding your way back when the light returns.
And this time, the light didn’t fade.
It stayed.
- Writer
