CHAPTER 19 – One Night Only
1074 Words
They had exactly one night left.
After a summer of tight group chats, open car windows, 2 a.m. fry runs, and midday Target therapy, this was it. The last night all four of them would be together before college took them in opposite directions.
It was Lia’s idea.
“No big party,” she’d said. “No crowd. Just us.”
Imani offered her backyard. Mila promised snacks. Savannah made a playlist.
There were no speeches. No toasts. Just an unspoken agreement: This wasn’t about goodbyes. It was about remembering who they were—together—before the world tried to rewrite them.
Imani’s backyard was covered in string lights and throw blankets. Half a dozen candles flickered from old mason jars. A bluetooth speaker leaned against a chair leg, quietly playing a playlist Savannah had named *Last Night, Best Night*.
Mila dropped a bag of sour gummy worms on the table like it was a peace offering. Savannah brought La Croix and a tupperware of tiny cheese cubes. Lia showed up with arms full—Takis, iced cookies, Capri Suns, and a single balloon that said “YOU TRIED.”
“It was in the clearance bin,” she explained, dropping it in Imani’s hands. “Felt emotionally accurate.”
Imani snorted and tied it to the back of her folding chair.
They settled in like they always did.
Effortlessly.
The night smelled like jasmine and melted Sour Patch Kids. Savannah curled into a blanket like she was butter. Mila sprawled across a lawn chair, bare legs up, black tank top against the cool air. Imani flipped through a dog-eared notebook, pretending to read and failing. Lia was in the middle. Hair in two messy braids. Hoodie over bike shorts. Gold stars dotted across her cheeks like freckles, because she bought face stickers on impulse and had zero regrets.
She was talking about squirrels.
“I’m just saying,” she said, gesturing with a cheese cube, “if squirrels ever organize, we’re done. They already have hand-eye coordination and zero fear.”
Mila tossed a gummy at her. “You’re deranged.”
Lia caught it in her mouth. “You’re welcome.”
Savannah laughed. “Promise me you’ll be exactly this weird at college.”
“Girl,” Lia said, “I plan on getting weirder. College has arts funding. Do you know what I can do with access to a theater department?”
Imani looked up. “Terrorism?”
“Performance art,” Lia corrected. “But, like, emotionally disruptive.”
They laughed until their stomachs hurt.
Later, Savannah pulled out a little wooden bowl.
“Okay,” she said. “Fear fire.”
Imani raised an eyebrow. “That sounds deeply unsafe.”
“It’s symbolic,” Savannah said. “We write down one fear about next year, burn it, and let the ashes rise like smoke demons.”
“Beautiful,” Mila said. “Dramatic. Ten out of ten.”
They took turns writing in silence.
Imani wrote with the precision of a scalpel. Mila scribbled like the pen might catch fire. Savannah folded hers into a perfect triangle.
Lia hesitated.
Then wrote: That we won’t come back.
She folded the paper slowly.
They dropped their fears into the bowl. Imani lit the match. Lia held the bowl. Mila fanned the flames with a pizza box.
Ash floated like snow.
No one spoke until it was out.
The silence that followed stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... full.
Savannah broke it, her voice low, “Can I ask something kind of depressing?”
“Always,” Lia said.
Savannah stared into the ashes. “Do you think we would’ve been friends if none of it happened? If there hadn’t been… you know.”
“The Jordan of it all?” Mila said.
“Yeah.”
Imani tilted her head. “I don’t know. Maybe not right away.”
“But eventually,” Lia said, firm. “We would’ve found each other. One way or another.”
Savannah looked at her. “You believe that?”
“I do.” Lia smiled. “Some people are just... supposed to find each other.”
Mila exhaled. “I’m almost grateful it happened.”
Imani blinked. “Seriously?”
“Not for what it was,” she clarified. “But for what it gave us.”
They sat with that.
Afterwards, they played music again. Talked about nothing and everything. Wondered about their roommates, their majors, their future tattoos.
Savannah was off to USC. Communications. She already had an internship lined up for spring.
Mila had a full ride to UCLA for Studio Art. She’d already packed her spray cans and a portfolio with a piece titled *Trust Issues in Neon*.
Imani was headed to Spelman. Biology. Planned on going pre-med. She had color-coded her fall schedule and was probably going to be her dorm’s emergency contact.
And Lia was going to San Francisco State. Undeclared, unbothered.
“I’m gonna try stuff,” she said. “See what makes me feel alive. Or at least not bored.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Imani said. “You always do.”
Lia smiled. Then turned serious.
“We should come back,” she said. “Winter break. All of us. Here.”
Savannah nodded. “Three weeks. Just us.”
Mila lifted her Capri Sun. “I want prank stories, heartbreak, and at least one deeply questionable decision from each of you.”
Imani added, “Daily check-ins. Emergency emoji protocol stays in place.”
Lia grinned. “And I want a group outfit. We enter the New Year like a cult.”
“A hot cult,” Mila corrected.
They clinked plastic juice pouches.
At some point, the music slowed. The air cooled. The stars sharpened.
They fell asleep outside, on blankets and pillows and bean bags dragged from Imani’s garage.
Savannah curled into Imani’s shoulder. Mila snored like a chainsaw. Imani drooled a little on herself.
Lia stayed awake the longest.
She looked at the girls around her.
Thought about prom. About that first group photo. About the lie that broke everything open.
They weren’t broken anymore.
They were rebuilt.
Better.
Brighter.
Lia closed her eyes to the sound of breathing and wind chimes. She didn’t know what tomorrow looked like.
But tonight?
It looked like this.
And it was enough.
They came together in fire.
But they left with light.
- Writer
