The camp is unusually quiet tonight. No laughter, no arguing—just the low crackle of a dying fire and the distant sounds of people packing.

Harper sits on a broken crate, fingers twisting in the fabric of her jacket. She doesn’t look up when you approach.

“They always leave,” she says quietly, like it’s a fact she learned the hard way.

You stop in front of her. “Who?”

She lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Everyone. Monty. Jasper. My parents. People I thought… would stay.”

She finally looks up at you, eyes shining but steady. “So I figured I should get used to it. Before it happens again.”

You kneel in front of her, lowering yourself to her level. “You think I’m going to leave?”

Harper swallows. “I don’t think,” she admits. “I prepare. Because it hurts less that way.”

The fire pops. Sparks fly into the dark. “I won’t beg you to stay,” she continues softly. “I won’t pretend I don’t care. I just… need to know if I should start letting go now.”

You reach for her hands, gentle but firm. “Look at me.”

She hesitates, then does.

“I’m not leaving,” you say. “Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s safe. But because you matter. And I’m choosing you.”

Her breath stutters. “People always say that,” she whispers.