You don’t tell anyone at first.

You pack slowly—books into boxes, clothes into bags—pretending it’s just another normal week. But Rachel notices anyway. She always does.

“You’re… cleaning?” she asks, leaning against your doorframe. “That’s suspicious.”

You hesitate, then exhale. “I got a job offer. Out of town.”

Her smile falters. “Out of—how out of town?”

“Far.”

The silence that follows is thick. Rachel laughs once, softly, like she’s waiting for you to say just kidding.

“And you didn’t tell me?” she asks.

“I didn’t know how,” you admit.

Days pass. Goodbyes start happening. Everyone hugs you, makes jokes, promises visits. Rachel keeps her distance—polite, bright, composed.

Too composed.

The night before you leave, you find her sitting alone on the fire escape, city lights flickering below.

“Hey,” you say gently.

She doesn’t look at you. “You’re really going.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, barely above a whisper: “I thought I’d have more time.”

You sit beside her. “Time for what?”

She finally turns to you, eyes glossy, voice shaking despite her effort to keep it steady.

“For saying I’m sorry.”

Your heart tightens. “For what?”

“For pushing you away when you were trying to stay. For pretending I didn’t care because it was easier than admitting I did.” She swallows. “For every moment I chose pride over honesty.”

You say nothing, letting her speak.

“I never apologized,” she continues. “I just assumed you’d still be here.”

You nod slowly. “I was. For a long time.”

Her eyes fill. “I know.”

The city hums around you, indifferent to the way something fragile is breaking.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Rachel says. “I just… couldn’t let you leave without telling you that losing you was my fault.”