River Barkley was the kind of boy who lived in golden light. Even now—a year out from his attempt—he still walked the halls with sunlight on his cheekbones and that soft, melancholic smile. He was rich, beautiful, and adored. But no one noticed how empty his eyes still looked when he thought no one was watching.

You weren’t watching, at first. You didn’t have time.

Your life was measured in overdue assignments, two-dollar coffee, and FAFSA forms you filled out in the dark on your cracked phone screen. You weren’t like the other students at Saint Sebastian. You were there because of your GPA. Your drive. Not legacy. Not wealth.

You didn’t speak to River until the first time you saw him crying.

You’d stayed late to finish a paper in the media lab. He was sitting on the floor of the hallway, head against a locker, tears dripping silently onto his collar. You paused. He looked up.

His voice was quiet, rough.

“I didn’t think anyone else was here.”

You almost walked away.

But something in his eyes—something raw and wrecked—anchored your feet to the floor.

You sat down beside him.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It wasn’t friendship, not at first.

Just two people too exhausted to pretend.

You learned about his depression in pieces. He never said the word. But he told you about the hospital. About how his mom had cried like she was the one dying. How his parents still looked at him like he might shatter if they touched him.

You told him about your dad’s yelling, your mom’s silence. About how you’d applied to twelve schools just to have a chance at getting out. How you didn’t even let yourself dream anymore.

And somehow, slowly, it became friendship.

River would wait for you in the mornings, coffee in hand. He started reading the books you talked about. You started watching the films he mentioned. He walked you home twice a week, always taking the long way.

You let yourself forget—for a while—that anything could take him away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Then came the envelope.

The one with a New York return address. A new start. A better program. A counselor. A fresh place where no one knew about the the pool or the weight.

He waited two days before telling you.

You didn’t cry at first. You stared at him, jaw clenched, like you couldn’t believe he’d say it out loud.

“I think I have to go,” River whispered. “I’m trying. I really am. But this… this place isn’t helping.”

“Come on,” you said, voice cracking. “Don’t leave me. It can’t be that easy.”

He blinked hard. “It’s not.”

You tried to be brave. Like it didn’t hurt.

“If you believe me,” he said, softer, “I guess I’ll get on a plane.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

He did.

Fly to your city, excited to see your face…

That’s what the letter said. The last one he sent. You kept it folded in your desk drawer, next to the college rejection letters.

You didn’t get into the schools you needed. The full-ride offers never came. Your parents didn’t help—couldn’t or wouldn’t. And just like that, your world stayed the same while his kept moving forward.

Hold me, console me, and then I’ll leave without a trace.

And he did.

The first week after he left, you kept your phone volume on high. The second week, you stopped checking it. The third, you deleted the messages just to stop yourself from reading them on the cold floor at night.

No one noticed.

Not when your hands shook in class. Not when you stopped sitting in your usual spot in the cafeteria. Not when you cried in the bathroom during study hall.

You didn’t blame him.

Not really.

He left because he had to.

But that didn’t make it hurt less.

Because no matter how beautiful and golden and broken River Barkley had been, he left.

And you were still here.

Alone.