The city is half-asleep when we reach the station, and for a moment I wonder if it would notice if one of us disappeared entirely.
Shutters are still down. Streetlights flicker like they are reconsidering their life choices. The air smells like yesterday's rain and cheap coffee. A few taxis idle near the curb, engines humming softly, like they are whispering secrets to themselves.
This should feel temporary. It doesn't.
Alice stands beside me, scrolling through her phone, hair pulled back neatly, coat buttoned all the way up. She looks sharper. Not dressed up, exactly, but composed in a way that suggests she already belongs somewhere else. Like she has stepped into a version of herself that knows where she is going and does not plan on waiting.
There is a steadiness to her posture I do not remember.
"Don't look at me like that," she says without glancing up. "I'm still the same person."
"I wasn't looking," I lie.
She finally looks at me, one eyebrow raised. "You were absolutely looking."
"Fine," I admit. "You just look very corporate today."
She grins. "Disgusting, I know. Next thing you know, I'll start saying things like synergy and brand voice unironically."
"That's when I stop answering your calls."
"Wow. Conditional friendship. Love that for us."
We drag her suitcase a little closer to the platform. The wheels squeak in protest. The station speakers crackle, announcing departures in a bored voice that sounds like it has said goodbye too many times to care anymore. Everything feels muted, like the city itself is holding its breath.
"So," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Marketing firm."
"Mm-hmm." She nods. "Big building. Too many glass walls. Everyone looks like they drink green smoothies and judge you silently."
"Sounds welcoming."
"Oh, absolutely. Very 'we're a family here,' but you know, the kind that schedules your burnout."
I laugh, and it comes easily. That surprises me.
"You're going to be amazing," I say.
She shrugs, suddenly modest. "It's just a job. I'm not saving the world."
"Still," I reply. "It's a start."
She studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, then smirks. "Look at you. Encouraging healthy career moves. Who are you and what have you done with Ash Bennett?"
"Character development," I say. "Very rare. Don't get used to it."
The announcement for her train echoes through the station. Boarding in five minutes.
She does not flinch.
That is when I notice it.
The old Alice would have fidgeted. Would have questioned herself. Would have made one last joke to dodge the moment entirely. This version just exhales, slow and steady, like she has already accepted the cost of leaving.
"I guess this is it," she says lightly.
"Yeah," I reply, though the word lands heavier than it should.
She steps forward and hugs me. I wrap my arms around her automatically. The hug lasts longer than either of us intended. Long enough for the noise of the station to fade. Long enough for something uncomfortable to surface.
A small, selfish part of me wishes she would hesitate.
"Promise you won't disappear," she says into my shoulder.
"I won't," I say. "I promise."
It is easier to promise than to explain how.
She pulls back and studies my face, like she is searching for something I am not sure I have. "And don't do that thing where you think staying quiet is the same as staying strong."
"I feel attacked."
"Good."
She picks up her suitcase, then pauses. Looks at me again, softer this time.
"Don't vanish on me, okay?"
The words are gentle, but they stay lodged somewhere I cannot shake.
"I won't," I repeat.
She smiles, small and genuine, then turns toward the train without looking back. I watch her weave through the crowd, confident, unhesitating. When she steps inside, she does not glance out the window.
The doors close.
The train pulls away.
I stand there until it disappears down the track, even though I know staying will not change anything.
The city wakes up around me. More footsteps. More voices. More movement. This goodbye does not ache the way heartbreak does. It does not shatter me.
It settles.
Permanent in shape, even if not in fact.
I turn and walk away, carrying the quiet realization that life is moving forward whether I am ready or not.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The city does not collapse when someone leaves.
That is the cruel part.
It keeps breathing. Buses exhale. Pigeons argue over crumbs like nothing important has just happened. Somewhere, a radio coughs out a morning song. I walk back to my room alone, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, feeling like I have been downgraded from we to I overnight.
My room greets me with its usual indifference.
I pour myself coffee out of habit, not hunger, and sit on the edge of the bed while the steam curls upward and disappears faster than it should.
By the time I remember the cup in my hand, it has gone cold.
Figures.
I stare at the wall across from me. There is a faint scuff mark where Alice once leaned her suitcase and said, "If this place ever burns down, at least you'll have proof I existed."
The city feels larger now. Not louder, just stretched. Like it has realized it has more room to fill without her walking beside me, matching my pace, complaining about pigeons like they are personally out to get her.
I consider staying.
The thought sits with me longer than it should.
Staying another month. Maybe two. Finding some excuse. Work. Deadlines. Money. Pretending the city still belongs to me.
Then Willowbrook slips into my mind without permission.
Quiet streets. Familiar corners. Josh's voice yelling my name like it is an emergency even when it is just cereal-related. Lena's ghost in every memory I keep carefully boxed away.
Running had not fixed anything.
Going back probably would not either.
But it feels necessary in the way bad habits do. Like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Before I leave, I know there is one place I need to go.
---
The bell above the bookstore door rings the way it always has. Sharp. Unapologetic. The smell hits me immediately. Old paper, brewed tea, and dust that feels intentional, like it has been curated.
Ms. Rosaline looks up from the counter.
She freezes.
"Well," she says slowly, peering at me over her glasses, "you look like someone who is about to say something stupid."
I manage a weak smile. "Good morning to you too, Ms. Rosaline."
She folds her newspaper with surgical precision. "You are not on the schedule."
"I know."
Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Weighted. She studies my face the way she always does, like she is checking for cracks in a porcelain cup.
"You're leaving," she says.
Not a question.
I nod. "Today. Going home."
"Hm." She hums like she is tasting the word. "Home is a dangerous place. People expect things from you there."
"People expect things from me everywhere," I say. "At least at home, they already know I am disappointing."
She snorts. "Modest as ever."
I glance around the shop. The uneven stacks. The handwritten recommendation cards. The chair in the corner where I used to hide during slow afternoons and read poetry like it might explain my life.
"I came to say goodbye," I add. "Properly. And thank you."
Ms. Rosaline sighs and walks around the counter, stopping in front of me with her arms crossed.
"You were a terrible employee," she says. "Always distracted. Always scribbling in that ridiculous notebook."
I swallow.
"But," she continues, her voice softer now, "you listened. And you cared. That is rarer than competence."
She presses something into my hand.
A small, worn book. The spine is cracked. The margins are full of notes. Hers.
"I was saving that for when you would finally stop pretending you were not a writer," she says. "But I am old. I do not have time for your denial arc."
I laugh, and it comes out thin and uneven.
"Ms. Rosaline…"
"Don't." She waves a hand. "If you thank me, I will start crying. And I refuse to cry in my own shop before noon."
I tuck the book into my bag carefully, like it might bruise.
"I don't know if I will ever come back here," I admit.
She does not argue. She just says, "That is all right. Places do not need loyalty. People do."
She pauses, then adds, "And Ash?"
"Yes?"
"Wherever you go, do not disappear. Writers who vanish usually just end up bitter."
I nod. "I will try not to."
She pulls me into a brisk hug, surprisingly firm, then steps back like it never happened.
"Go," she says. "Before I start being sentimental."
The bell rings again as I step outside.
The street looks the same. The city has not noticed anything ending.
But I have.
And somewhere deep down, I know whatever is waiting for me in Willowbrook is not done with me yet.
My cruel fate was already waiting there.