He told her the night the air smelled like wet pavement and burnt leaves, standing under the flickering streetlamp that always buzzed like it was broken, or trying to speak. The words came out rough, like they scraped his throat on the way out. He didn’t look at her when he said it—“I enlisted.” Just kept staring at the cracks in the sidewalk like they might offer some kind of comfort.

She didn’t cry. Not then.

He felt the cold before the silence. It slipped between them like a third presence. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, sharp and quick, then nothing. The kind of quiet that feels too heavy for a regular night.

They were both scared of leaving. Scared of staying. Raised in quiet homes with too many closed doors and not enough noise. He wasn’t really an only child, not technically. His brother left at seventeen—left the house, the family, maybe even himself—and never came back in full. Just a name on a contact list, grayed out and unanswered.

She understood. That was the worst part.

Over the next two weeks, they met outside every night. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Just sat on the curb between their houses, knees brushing, eyes lost somewhere above the rooftops where stars tried to shine through city haze. It was their ritual. Their in-between.

He noticed how she breathed quieter now. How her hands fidgeted more. He wanted to hold her steady, but he wasn’t sure he could even hold himself.

The night before he left, the air was thicker. Like even the world was afraid to let go. He stood, fists in his pockets, heart racing in that sick, fluttery way. She didn’t say a word.

He looked at her then—really looked. At the girl who never asked him to stay, only made him want to. And he whispered, like it hurt,

“I’ll find my way back. Just—don’t forget where I belong.”