Her apartment is too quiet. Not silent — the city outside hums faintly, cars passing, someone shouting down on the street — but inside, it feels like every sound is swallowed before it can reach the walls.

You’re standing in her bedroom, a half-zipped suitcase open on the floor, clothes folded into neat stacks that make no sense because your hands are shaking. Tate sits on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame.

The closet door swings open with a soft creak. You reach for the hoodie she stole from you last month — the one she insisted fit her better — and your fingers linger on it longer than you mean to.

Behind you, Tate’s breath hitches. You let out a painful exhale and set it back down on the dresser instead of packing it. Her shoulders loosen just a little.

You bend down to grab a pair of shoes, your heartbeat pounding so hard your ribs ache. The air between you feels heavy, like if either of you moves too quickly, the whole room will shatter.

Three years. Three years of airports and concerts and games and late-night FaceTimes and falling asleep tangled on her couch because neither of you were willing to move. Three years of quiet mornings and stupid jokes and whispered I love you’s. Three years of making the impossible work.

And now you’re leaving because Europe called. And you answered. And you both knew this was the moment everything cracked.

Tate pulls at the sleeve of her sweatshirt, fidgeting. “You don’t have to take everything tonight,”

“I leave in the morning.”

“I know.”

You zip your suitcase slowly. The sound slices through the quiet, sharp and final.

When you turn around, she’s staring at the floor. Her hair falls forward, hiding half her face, but you can see the tremble in her lips. You walk over and sit beside her on the edge of the bed, not touching.

She finally looks up at you with red eyes. “Can you… just sit with me?” she whispers.

You nod. You sit shoulder to shoulder, staring at the suitcase instead of each other.

After a long moment, Tate breathes out a shaky laugh. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“It doesn’t,” you whisper back.

“You’re supposed to wake up tomorrow and kiss me goodbye before practice,” she murmurs. “And I’m supposed to make coffee and pretend I don’t mind how early you wake up.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

“Not this.” Her voice cracks. “Not packing.”

Her fingers brush yours on the bedspread — barely, barely there — like her body moves toward you without her permission.

You grasp her hand gently. She closes her eyes and for a moment, it almost feels normal.

“Three years,” she whispers. “Three years and we didn’t even fall out of love. Isn’t that the stupidest part?”

You nod, voice stuck in your throat.

She opens her eyes slowly, tears gathering at the edges. “Then why does it have to be like this?”

You inhale — sharp, painful — wishing you had an answer that made any of this easier. Instead, you say, “Because life doesn’t pause for us.”

Tate flinches. Her voice lowers to a raw confession. “I would’ve paused.”

You turn toward her fully, forcing yourself not to pull her into your arms.

“Tate,” you say, voice breaking, “I know you would have. And that’s exactly why I can’t let you.”

Her lips tremble.

You force yourself to continue. “I can’t take you away from your career. From your momentum. From everything you’ve been building. You deserve… you deserve the world, Tate. And I can’t be the reason you give up pieces of it.”

Her eyes fill immediately. “And you expect me not to feel like you’re giving up pieces of me?” she whispers.

You look at her — really look at her — at the girl you fell in love with, the girl you still love, the girl you’re walking away from because life pulled you in opposite directions.

You say nothing. Because you don’t have anything left that won’t hurt her more.

Tate reaches up, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her voice is barely audible when she speaks again, but the words cut straight through you.

“So this is really it?”