DIYA'S POV
Weeks blurred into something fragile and tender.
No labels. No promises. Just the quiet understanding that whatever this was—us—needed time to breathe.
We flirted through screens, traded songs like secrets, sent sleepy selfies with captions that made my chest ache.
On the surface, nothing had changed.
Beneath it?
Everything had.
Every message carried weight. Every laugh felt deliberate. We were careful with each other in a way we'd never been before—like we both knew how easily this could shatter.
Then reality arrived with a boarding pass and a one-way ticket.
College. Distance. Goodbye.
I packed methodically—chargers, toiletries, the hoodie he'd left at my place—but my hands trembled. Not from fear of leaving.
From fear of what it would do to us.
Maddy came to the airport.
He didn't speak much. Just held my hand in the cab, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm like he was memorizing the shape of me.
At the terminal, he peeled off his hoodie—warm from his skin, smelling like him—and pressed it into my hands.
"Wear this when you miss me," he said, voice rough.
Then, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he slid off his ridiculous oversized glasses—the ones I'd teased him about a hundred times—and tucked them gently into my palm.
"Keep these. So I know a part of me's with you."
I wanted to laugh. To tease him.
Instead, my throat closed.
We didn't hug. Just stood there, foreheads nearly touching, breathing each other in like it might be the last time.
The boarding announcement crackled overhead.
"I'll miss you," I whispered.
His lips parted—to say what?—but no words came. Just a nod. A shaky exhale.
As I walked away, I felt it:
Two hearts breaking in silence.
Not because we were over.
But because love—even the strongest kind—hurts when it's stretched across miles.
One last glance back:
There he stood, pressed against the glass, smiling through tears.
MADDY'S POV
I didn't cry when she left.
Not when she pulled her suitcase from the trunk. Not when she hesitated at the terminal doors.
But when she took my glasses—the ones she always stole just to see me squint—something in my chest cracked.
This was really happening.
She was leaving.
And I was letting her.
The hoodie was a pathetic excuse. "Wear this when you miss me." As if fabric could replace the weight of her in my arms. As if anything could.
I should've said more. Should've told her—
What?
That I loved her? That I was terrified? That every mile between us felt like a knife twisting deeper?
But the words stuck in my throat.
So I stood there, hands shoved in my pockets, watching her walk away until she was just a blur—literally, now that she had my damn glasses.
A laugh escaped me, sharp and broken.
The glass fogged under my breath as I pressed closer, desperate for one last glimpse.
Then—
She turned.
Just for a second. Just long enough for our eyes to meet.
And I knew.
This wasn't goodbye.
This was "wait for me."