You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt—the one he gave you after that Friday night game when the air was sharp and your cheeks were flushed from laughing too much. Everything in this room feels borrowed. The scent of vanilla in the candle Haley lit hours ago, the hum of cicadas outside the window, the soft creak of the wooden floorboards every time you shift your weight. Even the sweatshirt. Even this life.

You glance at the mirror. You still look like you. Mostly. But something about your eyes has changed. Maybe it’s because you’re eighteen now. Or maybe it’s because you know something no one else does. Well… no one but Haley.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving in four days,” she said this morning, like it was just another thing to be annoyed about. Like the milk going bad. Or someone cutting in line at Starbucks. You couldn’t answer her. Not really. What could you say? I know. I feel like I’m walking toward the edge of a cliff blindfolded, and I might be sick every time I think about it.

Four days.

It’s funny. You’ve had a countdown in your mind since you arrived in this country—first for prom, then graduation, then summer lake trips with Haley, bonfires with your group, late-night car rides with Liam. Now the countdown feels like something entirely different. Like something closing in. You came here with so much hope and zero expectations. Just your suitcase, your accent, and a dream that smelled like popcorn, freedom, and something unknown.

You met Landon on your third day here, when you were still nervous about ordering your own coffee. He was loud and confident, with a smile that made your skin tingle. You weren’t trying to impress anyone—you were just being yourself. Maybe that’s why it worked. He teased you about your French but said he loved the way you talked. Said it made everything you said sound like a poem. You didn’t believe him, not really, but you liked the way he looked at you when he said it.

He plays football, of course. The kind of boy every girl watches in the hallway but only few get close to. And somehow, you were one of them. Not because you tried. Just because you listened. Because you laughed. Because you were different.

And he made you feel like the most American version of yourself—windows down, hair flying, music too loud, his hand resting casually on your knee.

The kind of stuff you used to see in teen movies.

You went to prom with him. You kissed him in the backseat of his pickup under a sky full of stars. You carved your initials into a tree by the lake. And now you’re here, wearing his sweatshirt, a thousand thoughts slamming into you all at once, and your hand drifts to your stomach without meaning to.

You still haven’t told him.

You can’t tell him. Not yet. Because if you do, you know exactly what will happen. He’ll ask you to stay. He’ll say it with that conviction in his voice that makes everything else disappear. And you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes even though your parents are waiting for you in France, even though your visa ends next week, even though you don’t have a plan or a clue how to raise a baby.

But he deserves to know. Doesn’t he?

Your fingers are shaking a little. You hide them under the blanket when Haley walks in. She’s got two sodas and that look in her eye like she’s about to try to make you laugh again. Like that could fix anything.

“I swear, if you don’t tell him soon, I will,” she says, flopping next to you like this is just any other night.

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would,” she says, already reaching for the remote. “But only because I love you and you’re being dramatic.”

You laugh, a little. And then it’s quiet again.

The movie starts playing, but you’re not really watching. Your mind is too loud. His name echoes like a heartbeat: Landon, Landon, Landon.

You wonder what he would say if he knew. If he’d still look at you the same way he did last night, when he kissed your forehead and whispered, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

You wish it too.