The moment she said it out loud, it became real.
"I have to move."
Michele's voice cracked as the words left her lips, like she had been holding them in for too long. Tears followed almost immediately, quiet at first, then impossible to stop.
For a second, I didn't move.
Then instinct took over.
"Hey… hey, it's okay."
I reached into my bag, pulling out a pack of tissues I always carried. A habit, really. My nose ran easily even when I wasn't sick, something people used to find strange. I used to be embarrassed about it.
Now, it felt like I had been preparing for this moment without knowing.
"Here," I said gently, handing her one.
Michele took it with trembling fingers, pressing it to her eyes as she tried to steady her breathing.
"What happened?" I asked softly, my hand resting on her shoulder. "Tell me."
She shook her head at first, like the answer itself was too heavy to say.
But eventually, it came.
"My parents… they've decided," she said. "I'm moving. We're leaving."
The words landed slowly.
Not because I didn't understand them.
But because I didn't want to.
"Leaving where?" I asked, even though a part of me already knew.
She hesitated, then whispered, "London."
Everything inside me went still.
"London?" I repeated, quieter now.
She nodded, tears slipping past her lashes again. "My dad got transferred. It's where he's from. He has to go back."
Of course.
That explained everything.
The arguments. The tension. The silence that stretched too long between the walls of her house.
All of it led here.
"And you?" I asked carefully. "Do you want to go?"
She let out a broken laugh.
"Does it matter?"
I didn't answer.
Because we both knew it didn't.
"I like it here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to leave. I don't want to start over somewhere I don't know anyone."
Her fingers tightened around the tissue, crumpling it slightly.
"I don't want to lose this."
"This" didn't need explaining.
I understood.
"You're not going to lose me," I said, even though my chest felt tight saying it. "We'll call. We'll text. It's not like you're disappearing."
But even as the words came out, they felt fragile.
Like something that could break the moment we tried to rely on it.
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine.
"You promise?"
I forced a small smile.
"I promise."
The wind passed through the park, carrying the faint sound of children playing somewhere far behind us. Life went on, unaffected, indifferent to moments like this.
"I don't know how to do this," Michele admitted. "I don't know how to say goodbye without feeling like I'm leaving everything behind."
"You don't have to say goodbye like that," I said. "Just… think of it as a different kind of staying."
She frowned slightly. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," I said slowly, choosing my words with care, "you're still part of this place. You're just not here physically."
She let out a soft breath, not quite convinced, but willing to listen.
"Michele," I added, my voice gentler now, "can I tell you something?"
She nodded.
"This isn't me trying to lecture you," I said with a faint smile. "I just… want you to be okay."
She looked at me, curious now despite everything.
"What is it?"
I hesitated for a moment, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Then I decided to say it anyway.
"When you're there… don't hide," I said quietly. "Don't stay quiet just because you're scared people won't understand you."
Her expression softened slightly.
"You don't have to become someone else," I continued. "But you can't keep yourself locked away either. Talk to people. Let them know you. Even if it's hard."
She gave a small, fragile smile.
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not," I admitted. "But being alone is harder."
That seemed to settle somewhere inside her.
"I'll try," she said.
We sat there for a while after that, neither of us rushing the moment. The sun was starting to dip lower, painting everything in softer shades of gold.
Time was moving.
Too fast.
"Lusi," she said suddenly.
I turned to her. "Yeah?"
"There's something else."
My chest tightened again.
"What is it?"
She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together slightly.
Then she whispered:
"My dad didn't just get transferred."
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
She swallowed hard.
"He chose to leave."
The words didn't make sense at first.
Or maybe they made too much sense.
"What are you saying?" I asked slowly.
She lifted her gaze to meet mine.
And in her eyes, I saw something I hadn't expected.
Not just sadness.
Not just fear.
But something deeper.
Something broken.
"They've been fighting for months," she said. "And this… this move…"
She paused, her voice trembling.
"It's not just about his job."
My heart started to pound.
"Then what is it about?"
Michele took a shaky breath.
And when she finally answered… everything shifted.
"He's leaving us."
Silence can mean many things.
Acceptance. Distance. Or something breaking quietly where no one can see.
For hours, Michele didn't reply.
Not after I sent my message. Not after I tried to sound calm, supportive, like someone who understood more than she actually did. I stared at my phone longer than I wanted to admit, rereading what I had written, searching for something wrong.
"Did I say too much?"
The question stayed.
When the notification finally came, it felt smaller than I expected.
Just one message.
Simple. Neat. Almost too neat.
"Yeah, Lusi. I'll try your advice."
I stared at the screen.
That was it.
No follow up. No hesitation. No emotion I could hold onto.
"Okay," I whispered to myself, forcing a small smile. "That's good, right?"
But something about it didn't sit right.
"Oke sip," I typed back, adding a smile that didn't quite match what I felt.
I sent it anyway.
For a moment, I told myself to leave it there.
To trust her.
To believe that she meant what she said.
But doubt is a quiet thing.
It doesn't shout. It lingers.