Anna hugged me when we finished loading the car, her arms tight around my shoulders in a way that reminded me painfully of my own mother. The scent of her perfume—something floral and warm—made my throat close up with grief I didn't know how to process.
“Thank you,” she whispered against my ear. “For being his friend. For helping him find his place here. He wouldn't have made it through high school without you.”
I wanted to tell her she had it backwards, that Nate was the one who'd saved me. That he'd taken a broken, silent boy and somehow convinced him that his voice mattered, that his thoughts were worth sharing, that love was possible even for someone who carried too much darkness in his bones.
But I just nodded and stepped back, my throat too tight for words.
Nate clapped me on the shoulder, the casual touch sending electricity through my nervous system in ways I'd never learned to control.
“You'll visit, right?” His voice was carefully light, but I caught the tremor underneath. “Chicago's not that far. Just a plane ride away.”
A plane ride and a lifetime and worlds I'll never be able to cross.
“Maybe,” I managed, though we both knew it was a lie.
“Or maybe I'll come back for breaks,” Nate continued, still smiling but his eyes too bright. “Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring break. Hollow Pines isn't getting rid of me that easily.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to imagine a future where holidays brought him home, where I'd have something to look forward to besides the endless progression of pack responsibilities and Alpha training.
But I could already see it happening—how distance would fade what we'd built here, how new experiences and new peoplewould crowd out memories of a small town and the boy who'd loved him from a careful distance.
People moved on. It was what they did, what they were supposed to do.
The smart thing would be to let him go cleanly, to make this easier for both of us by pretending it didn't matter as much as it did.
But I'd never been good at smart choices when it came to Nate.
The driveto the bus station passed in a blur of pine trees and gathering dusk, the Evernight Forest pressing close on both sides of the road like it was trying to hold us all inside its borders. I pressed my face against the window and watched familiar landmarks flash by, each one a memory tied to three years of friendship and something deeper that I'd never been brave enough to name.
Nate talked nonstop from the passenger seat, his voice bright with forced enthusiasm as he described his dorm room, his class schedule, the photography lab he'd have access to starting next week. Anna and Michael asked questions and made appropriate encouraging noises, but I could hear the strain underneath their support.
We were all pretending this was normal, healthy, the natural progression of a young man's life. We were all ignoring the fact that it felt like amputation.
“The program director said they have darkrooms that are basically professional grade,” Nate was saying, twisting in his seat to include me in the conversation. “Can you imagine? Actual film processing equipment, not just digital labs. I might finallyget to experiment with some of the techniques I've been reading about.”
I made a sound that might have been agreement, but my throat felt too tight for actual words. Everything he was describing sounded amazing, the kind of opportunities I knew he deserved, the kind of future that could only happen away from a small town that would never understand his talent.
So why did it feel like listening to him plan his own funeral?
“And the city,” he continued, eyes lighting up in a way that made my chest ache. “Evan, you should see the photos online. The architecture, the light at different times of day, the people. There's so much to document, so many stories to tell.”
“Sounds perfect for you,” I said, and meant it despite the way the words tasted like blood and goodbye.
Nate's expression softened, some of the manic brightness fading into something more real.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think it will be.”
The bus station was a study in small-town functionality—a single-story building with plastic chairs and vending machines that probably hadn't worked since the Clinton administration. A handful of people waited with suitcases and resigned expressions, all of us bound together by the universal experience of leaving places we'd rather stay.
Anna immediately went into full mother mode, fussing over Nate's carry-on bag and making sure he had his phone charger, his wallet, enough snacks for the journey. Michael stood apart, jaw set in that particular way that meant he was feeling emotions he didn't know how to express.
I lingered at the edge of their family bubble, hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide the way they were shaking. The bus idled nearby, diesel exhaust mixing with evening air that tasted like pine and endings.
This was it. The moment I'd been dreading for months, arriving with all the inevitability of a natural disaster.
Nate finished hugging his parents, accepting final reminders about calling home and eating regular meals and remembering that they loved him no matter what. Then he turned to me, and the world narrowed down to just the two of us standing in a pool of fluorescent light while everything I'd never said burned in my throat like swallowed fire.
“So,” he said, trying for casual and missing by miles. “Guess this is it.”
