I stare at him, but the words don’t compute. I look past him toward the house, then back at him as my stomach drops.
“What are you talking about? We talked the night of the party, that’s it. We didn’t even—” I run a hand through my hair, trying to catch up. “We didn’t fight, Ryan. I swear. We cleared things—”
“Then why is he leaving?”
I don’t have an answer to that at all.
Before Ryan can say another word or accuse me of something else, I’m already moving. My sneakers slam against the court and up the back steps as I rush into the house.
My lungs feel too tight. I barely register the blur of guys in the kitchen or the TV’s drone from the living room as I take the stairs two at a time, the thud of each footfall rising in my ears.
Noah’s door is half-open, and I can see him inside, already packing. He’s folding a hoodie and tucking it into the suitcase on his bed. There’s a stack of neatly folded clothes beside it, hisheadphones, and a set of cables wound with obsessive precision. Everything about it is so painfully Noah that my chest aches.
My throat closes up as I speak. “Noah?”
He jumps, startled, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the fabric of his shirt. His hand freezes on the suitcase, but he doesn’t look at me right away.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping all the way into the room. “Ryan said you’re moving out.”
Noah finally turns to look at me and I can tell he’s already put the mask back on. The one he used to wear at galas when his mom paraded him around like a showpiece. I hate that he’s wearing it now, here, with me.
“I was always going to,” he says simply.
“But…” My chest tightens. I swallow around it, voice coming out ragged. “You didn’t say anything. I thought…”
He offers me a barely there smile. “That us talking changed everything?” He plays with the zipper of his suitcase but doesn’t close it yet. “This was never going to be permanent. Ryan did me a favor letting me stay, but I can’t do this forever. It’s too loud, there’s too many people and too many things I can’t control. I thought I could handle it longer, but I was wrong.”
I move closer—helpless against the pull—and almost reach for him before I remember myself and stop. “Is it because of me?”
He meets my eyes for a second, and for the briefest moment, I see the real Noah—fear and hope twisted together. “No,” he says, and his voice is gentle. “It’s not you. It’s not anyone. This isn’t me running away.”
“Then why, Blue?” I can’t stop the way my voice cracks on that nickname, or how desperate I sound.
“Because for the first time in my life, I have the money, the legal autonomy, and the freedom to be on my own. I don’t want the monthly parties or constantly worrying about whether I’m offending someone by skipping dinner because I’m not hungry.I can’t keep pretending I’m okay being around ten athletes every single day while I’m still figuring out who I am.”
He lifts his eyes to mine when I don’t say anything. There’s a hollowness in my chest, the kind that only comes when you realize you’re about to lose something you just got back.
“I want to know how it feels to make a choice without checking if my dad would approve. I want to eat dinner standing over the sink. Or sit on the floor and organize my books by the color of the spine without someone asking why or telling me I’m weird. I want to be alone for a little while and not feel like that’s a sin.”
I nod slowly, every word hitting me harder than the last. I understand—I do. That’s the worst part. I want to beg him to stay, but I know what it means to crave a space that’s yours and only yours. “Where are you moving to?”
He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Found a little apartment close to campus. It’s small and quiet. I used part of the trust my grandfather left to cover the deposit.”
“Can I see it?” The question is out before I think, and I want to fucking punch myself for my hastiness.
Noah blinks at that, looking surprised. “You want to?”
“I want to know where you are,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my hands shake. “I want to know I could find you if I had to. That I’m not losing you again.”
He’s silent, the hush in the room swallowing us whole. Then he smiles so wide, it punches me in the heart. “You have my number, Mien. Use it.”
The sound of him saying that nickname almost undoes me. I can’t speak for a second after hearing him call me that again. I just stand there, taking in the soft finality of it. The way he’s already pulled away—not from me, not really—but from the version of him that used to bend to everyone else’s rhythms. And maybe that’s what’s messing with my chest. Because I want himfree. I want him to be happy. I just don’t want that happiness to exist without me in it.
“I’ll send you the address,” he says, zipping another suitcase shut. “I don’t expect you to visit, though. So don’t feel too bad if you’re not able to.”
I want to tell him I’ll use it, that I’ll text or call or come around whenever he needs me. But I don’t want to make a promise I’m scared I won’t keep, not when he’s already pulling away.
So I don’t say any of it. My words right now would only be a guilt trip and I want him to make choices for himself. I simply watch him close the case on four years of silence and everything we didn’t say. And I know deep down that this isn’t goodbye, but it still fucking feels like it.
