The Almost Goodbye
1269 Words
POV: Amy
I woke the next morning wondering if I’d dreamed the entire thing.
The rain.
The warmth of his hands.
His lips on mine.
The way time seemed to stop under that tiny awning.
It felt unreal — too tender to belong to my life, too much like a memory from a book I’d once read and never expected to live.
But the ache low in my chest, the nervous flutter in my stomach…
Those were real.
I touched my fingers lightly to my lips.
Still warm.
Still trembling.
Suddenly I wasn’t sure if I was ready for what came next —
whatever next even meant.
The hospital was chaos again.
Rounds.
Consults.
Paperwork.
But I moved through the day with a hum under my skin.
I caught myself smiling more than once — something that hadn’t happened in a long time.
I was halfway through updating a chart when I saw him.
David.
Standing in the corridor, talking quietly to Dr. Harris.
His hair was still damp from the morning shower — or maybe the rain. He wore a charcoal coat and navy shirt, sleeves slightly rolled. Relaxed. Poised.
I tried not to stare.
I failed spectacularly.
As if sensing me, he turned.
Our eyes met and everything inside me went still.
A slow warmth flickered in his expression — small, private, meant only for me.
Before I could take a step toward him, Dr. Harris clapped him on the shoulder and said something that made David’s posture tighten.
David nodded.
His expression went unreadable in an instant — cool, guarded.
He turned and walked toward me.
But something felt different.
“Hi,” I said.
His eyes softened, but there was a shadow there.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
My heart stuttered.
“Now?”
“Roof?”
I nodded and followed.
We climbed the same stairwell we always did, but today the steps felt heavier.
Like we were walking toward something neither of us wanted to face.
The door opened to the quiet rooftop — the same place we once shared tea under string lights.
Now it felt colder, emptied of color.
David didn’t speak at first.
He kept his hands in his pockets, gaze on the skyline.
“Something’s happened,” I said.
It wasn’t a question.
He nodded.
“I leave tonight.”
My breath caught.
“Leave? For… how long?”
“Two weeks.”
A pause.
“Maybe longer.”
I felt the ground shift beneath me.
“Why?”
“Work.”
The word sounded too sharp, too simple.
Like it was hiding something.
“Where?”
“London.”
My heart tightened.
I tried to stay calm, to be reasonable — adults had lives, responsibilities.
We weren’t even officially anything.
We’d shared one kiss — one perfect, impossible kiss — and suddenly it felt like losing him was too big, too soon.
“When did you find out?” I asked.
“Last night.”
My chest tightened even more.
“Before or after…”
I couldn’t finish.
He exhaled.
“Before.”
Something cracked inside me.
“So you kissed me knowing you were leaving?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
My heart dropped — sharp and heavy.
“Why would you do that?” I whispered.
He finally looked at me — not coldly, but with something raw.
“Because I wanted to,” he said.
“And because if I didn’t, I knew I’d regret it.”
Tears pricked at my eyes.
I blinked them back.
“But now I’m the one who has to regret it,” I said quietly.
He flinched — just barely.
“I’m not ending anything,” he said.
“I’m not disappearing. I’m coming back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I have reasons.”
He sounded like he wanted to say more — like his chest was full of words he couldn’t let out.
But something stopped him.
Silence stretched between us.
The wind blew cold against my face.
“When do you leave?” I asked.
“In a few hours.”
“So this is goodbye.”
“No.”
He paused.
“Not goodbye. Just… a pause.”
I shook my head.
“It feels like goodbye.”
He stepped closer, but not close enough to touch.
“Amy,” he said, voice low, steady.
“You matter more than you know.”
I looked away — the skyline easier to face than him.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want to lose…”
He stopped, jaw tight.
“I didn’t want to make it complicated.”
“It’s already complicated.”
“Yes.”
His voice cracked just slightly.
“It is.”
I closed my eyes.
My hands curled into fists.
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“Live,” he said softly.
“Work. Sleep. Miss me.”
My heart clenched.
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
His throat worked.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Something in me broke then — quietly, like a thread snapping.
“Tell me the truth,” I whispered.
“Is there more to this than work?”
A beat of silence.
His gaze flicked away — just for a moment — and that was all the answer I needed.
“There is,” I said.
Pain threaded through my voice.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t confirm it.
Just looked at me with eyes full of things he refused to say.
“You don’t trust me enough to tell me,” I murmured.
His voice dropped.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“I get to decide what I need protection from.”
He closed his eyes briefly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“I know.”
My throat burned.
“So what happens now?”
He reached into his coat and pressed something into my hand.
I looked down.
A folded piece of paper.
No explanation.
“What is this?”
“Something to read when I’m gone.”
Panic flared.
“Why not now?”
“Because if you read it now…”
His voice strained.
“You might stop me from leaving.”
My breath trembled.
“Maybe I would.”
He nodded — once.
Quietly.
“I can’t afford that.”
I stared at him — at the distance he’d rebuilt between us.
Anger, fear, longing tangled into a painful knot.
“You kissed me,” I whispered.
His eyes softened.
Like that was his biggest truth.
“Yes.”
“Was it a mistake?”
His voice was immediate.
“No.”
Silence.
Cold, fragile.
He stepped closer and lifted his hand — slowly — giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
He brushed his fingers against my cheek, the touch unbearably gentle.
“This isn’t goodbye,” he said again.
My voice shook.
“Then what is it?”
His gaze held mine.
“Something we’ll finish later.”
The words were both promise and threat.
He leaned down just enough that his forehead almost touched mine —
almost.
But he didn’t kiss me.
Instead, he took a step back.
And then —
he left.
I stood there on the rooftop, the folded paper burning in my palm, the city roaring far below me.
He was gone before I could call him back.
Almost goodbye.
Almost.
And somehow
almost hurt more than anything final.
- Writer
