: If Loving You Means Leaving
The first thing Ariel packed was not clothes.
It was memories.
They lived in quiet places—in the corner of her room where Kai used to sit scrolling through his phone, pretending not to stare at her. In the mug he always used, chipped at the rim. In the playlist she couldn't bring herself to delete because every song sounded like him.
Three months suddenly felt too close.
Kai didn't call.
That hurt more than the argument. More than the silence before. Because this silence wasn't confusion—it was protection.
She tried to respect it. Tried to focus on forms, deadlines, and preparations. Tried to convince herself that this was what growth looked like: choosing discomfort now so she wouldn't regret it later.
But at night, when the world slowed down, doubt crept in.
What if success tasted lonely?
⸻
Kai threw himself into work like it could erase feelings.
Long hours. Late nights. Anything to avoid thinking about the way Ariel's laugh used to soften his worst days. Anything to avoid the image of her boarding a plane while he stood rooted in the same place.
He told himself he was doing the right thing.
Loving someone didn't mean holding them hostage.
Still, every time his phone buzzed, his heart betrayed him.
And every time it wasn't her, it ached all over again.
⸻
They ran into each other by accident.
Or maybe fate had a sense of humor.
The bookstore was nearly empty, the air thick with dust and old paper. Ariel reached for a novel at the same time Kai did.
Their fingers brushed.
Both froze.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey," she replied, like the word carried a thousand unsent messages.
They stood there, awkward and familiar all at once.
"You look tired," Ariel said.
"So do you."
A small smile appeared, then faded.
"How's the… preparation?" Kai asked.
She nodded. "It's real now."
He swallowed. "I figured."
Neither of them moved.
"I miss you," she said suddenly, like ripping off a bandage.
Kai laughed quietly, shaking his head. "You don't get to say that and walk away."
"I know," she whispered. "But I needed you to know it wasn't easy."
He stepped closer. "If it hurts this much, why go?"
Because staying might hurt forever, she almost said.
Instead, she said, "Because I'm scared of who I'll become if I don't."
That honesty disarmed him.
"I hate that I understand you," he murmured.
She reached out, then hesitated. "Can I hug you?"
He nodded.
The hug was everything they hadn't said. Tight. Shaky. Lingering too long. When they pulled apart, Kai rested his forehead against hers.
"If you go," he said, voice low, "don't disappear."
Tears welled in her eyes. "I promise I won't."
"And if I'm still here," he added, "don't forget me."
She smiled through tears. "Impossible."
⸻
That night, Ariel opened the acceptance portal.
The cursor blinked like it was waiting for courage.
She thought of her younger self—dreaming, desperate to escape. She thought of Kai—grounded, patient, loving in quiet ways.
She clicked Accept.
And cried harder than she expected.
⸻
The countdown began.
Their connection didn't end—it transformed. Late-night calls. Long voice notes. Laughter mixed with sadness. They spoke like people trying to stretch time.
No promises.
Just presence.
On the day Ariel left, Kai didn't say goodbye like it was final.
He pulled her into his arms at the airport and whispered, "Go become who you're meant to be."
She kissed his cheek, then his lips, soft and unsure.
"If loving you means leaving," she said, "then loving myself means trusting that what's real will survive distance."
Kai watched her walk away.
And for the first time, he didn't feel abandoned.
He felt hopeful.