The door clicks shut behind you and I hear it—really hear it—the exact weight of it settling into the frame. I always notice sounds like that. The symmetry of them. The finality.

My room looks the same as it always has. Desk aligned square with the wall. Books stacked by height, then colour. Trainers paired perfectly beneath the radiator. I tidied twice before you came over, then once again after you got here. I told you it was just habit, but you know me better than that.

You’re sitting on the edge of my bed now, trainers half unlaced, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do with themselves. When you’re anxious, you move. When you’re overwhelmed, you go still. Right now you’re somewhere in between.

I lean back against my wardrobe, arms folded, because if I don’t anchor myself to something I’ll start pacing. And if I start pacing, I won’t stop.

“New York,” I say, rolling the words around like they’re unfamiliar. “Bit different from London, yeah?”

It comes out lighter than I feel.

We’ve known each other since we were small enough that the world only existed between our two houses. You with your scraped knees and endless ideas. Me with my lists and routines and need for everything to make sense. You were chaos. I was structure. Somehow it worked.

You’d forget your homework; I’d remember both of ours. I’d spiral because my schedule changed; you’d drag me out for chips at half six and insist the world wouldn’t implode. When your thoughts ran too fast and tangled themselves up, I’d sit with you until they slowed. When mine got stuck on repeat, you’d distract me with a story so wild it short-circuited the loop.

Now you’re leaving.

You say it’s for your dreams. Acting, writing, music—depends on the day, but it’s always something bigger than this city. And I’ve always known you wouldn’t stay. You’ve got that restless spark in you. The one that makes you book flights at three in the morning because the idea won’t let you sleep.

I push off the wardrobe and sit in my desk chair instead, lining the wheels up with the grooves in the floorboards. I do it without thinking.

“You’ll hate the noise at first,” I mumble. “It’s louder there. Faster. You’ll forget to eat. And you’ll lose your keys constantly.”

You huff a laugh, but your eyes are glassy.

“And you’ll ring me,” I continue, steady now, because facts are easier than feelings. “You’ll ring me because you’re overwhelmed or because you’re excited or because you’ve convinced yourself you’ve ruined everything. And I’ll answer. Even if it’s three in the morning.”

My throat tightens at that.

You stand suddenly—of course you do—and start pacing my room, nearly knocking into my meticulously arranged bookshelf. I wince but don’t comment. Growth, I remind myself. Let it go.

“I don’t want it to change,” you say, words spilling out fast. “I don’t want us to change.”

That hits harder than I expect.

I drag my fingers through my hair, feeling the familiar need to straighten something, adjust something, fix something. But there’s nothing to fix here. This isn’t a crooked picture frame. This is life.

“We are going to change,” I say quietly. “That’s sort of the point.”

You stop pacing.

I meet your eyes and force myself not to look away. Eye contact isn’t my favourite thing in the world, but you deserve it.

“But change doesn’t mean ending,” I add. “It just means different.”

You sink back onto the bed, shoulders slumped. I cross the room and sit beside you, careful not to jostle the duvet too much out of place. After a second’s hesitation, I bump my shoulder lightly against yours. Casual. Familiar. Safe.

“You’re not leaving me,” I say. “You’re expanding.”

Silence stretches between us, not awkward—just heavy.

“I’ll still be here,” I continue. “Same postcode. Same annoying habits. Same tea mug with the chip in it. And you’ll still be you. Just… louder. In America.”

I lean back slightly, giving you space but staying close enough that you know I’m here.

“So,” I murmur, nudging your trainer with mine, “tell me what you’re most scared of. And we’ll sort through it.”