Always

Chapter Thirteen

Liam

The day of Mia’s interview shows up faster than I’m ready for.

I’m leaning against her front porch railing when she steps outside, dressed sharper than I’ve ever seen her—navy blouse, neat hair, confidence carefully layered over nerves. She looks like she already belongs somewhere bigger than this town.

“You’re staring,” she says, adjusting the strap of her bag.

“Can you blame me?” I reply.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. I can see the tension in her shoulders though, the way her fingers keep brushing against the envelope holding her paperwork.

“You’re going to be amazing,” I tell her.

“What if I freeze?” she asks quietly. “What if they realize I’m not as impressive as I sound on paper?”

I step closer. “You’ve been preparing for this since you were, like, twelve.”

“Thirteen,” she corrects automatically.

I grin. “See? Overachiever.”

She exhales, some of the nerves easing.

Her mom calls from inside that it’s time to go. The drive to the university will take hours. I won’t be there when she walks into that building. I won’t see the look on her face when she sits across from whoever decides if she gets in.

And that realization hits harder than I expected.

“This is your moment,” I say, softer now.

She searches my face. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

There it is. The question under the question.

Are you okay with me leaving?

Am I okay with the distance? With the change? With the possibility that her world grows bigger—and maybe I don’t fit into all of it?

I won’t lie. The thought scares me.

But losing her because I held her back? That would be worse.

“I’m not scared of you chasing your dream,” I tell her honestly. “I’d be scared if you didn’t.”

Her eyes shine slightly, and for a second I think she might cry. Instead, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me.

I hold her tighter than usual.

“Whatever happens,” she whispers, “this doesn’t erase us.”

“It doesn’t,” I agree. “We’re not that fragile.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I know.”

She smiles softly. “I like it.”

I lean down and kiss her—slow, steady, grounding. Not desperate. Not goodbye.

Just reassurance.

Her mom honks lightly from the driveway.

“That’s my cue,” she says.

I watch as she walks to the car, bag slung over her shoulder, future practically glowing around her. Before she gets in, she looks back at me.

I lift my hand in a small salute.

Go.

And as the car disappears down the street, I realize something important.

Loving someone doesn’t mean holding them close enough that they can’t move.

Sometimes it means standing still—so they know exactly where home is.