Always

Chapter Nineteen

Liam

The house next door has never been this quiet.

I wake up out of habit, glancing toward my window like I always do. For years, I’ve been able to see her light flick on in the mornings. A signal. A routine.

Today, it’s dark.

She left at sunrise.

I helped load the last box into the car. I hugged her mom. I told Mia to text me when they stopped for gas. I smiled like I was steady.

I didn’t expect the quiet to hit this hard.

By noon, I’ve already checked my phone twelve times. No new messages. I know she’s driving. I know reception gets spotty on the highway.

Doesn’t stop me from checking.

I grab my keys and head out for a drive, needing movement more than anything. The roads feel the same. The town looks the same. But everything feels slightly off—like someone shifted the center of it.

My phone buzzes at a red light.

Mia: We crossed the state line.

I exhale so hard it’s almost a laugh.

Me: Proud of you already.

Three dots appear.

Miss you.

That one word lands heavier than anything dramatic could have.

Miss you more, I type back.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in the garage with my dad, helping him tune an engine. Grease on my hands. Tools clanking. The kind of work that demands focus.

It helps.

But every time I pause, I feel it again—the absence.

That evening, my phone lights up with her name.

I answer before the first ring finishes. “You there?”

“Dorm room is smaller than my closet,” she says without preamble.

I grin despite myself. “Already judging it?”

“It’s… different.” I can hear the nerves under her attempt at humor. “My roommate isn’t here yet. Everything smells like cleaning supplies.”

“You’ll fix it up,” I say. “You fix everything.”

There’s a quiet beat.

“It doesn’t feel real,” she admits.

“It is.”

“Yeah.”

I lean back against my headboard, staring at the ceiling. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to be fearless tonight. It’s okay if it’s hard.”

Her breath catches slightly. “It is hard.”

“I know.”

Silence settles between us—not awkward, just honest.

“I’m still here,” I add.

“I know,” she whispers.

And that’s the thing about distance.

It stretches space.

Not connection.

When we hang up, the house is still quiet. The window across from mine is still dark.

But my phone sits on my nightstand, her last message glowing softly.

She’s three states away.

But she’s not gone.

And for now—

That’s enough.