Folded
It was 11:30 p.m. when we pulled up to my place, where Mia had left her car. I shifted the gear into “Park,” right in front of hers, and without looking at her, I asked quietly, “Do you have any last words?”
She shook her head. I got out, and she followed.
The night air was heavy and still, wrapping around us like the silence we carried. And then we were in each other’s arms—tight, desperate, holding on as if letting go meant the world would end. The car park was dark, almost empty, and in that darkness our sadness felt louder than anything else.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against my shoulder. “I’m sorry too,” I breathed back. “Thank you… for the best three months you could ever give.”
I felt my grip loosening, even though every part of me wanted to stay. She sensed it and let me go. For a moment, we stood apart, and the spell broke as a motorcyclist buzzed past, its engine echoing into the night.
When it was gone, our eyes found each other again. No words, no explanations. Just a knowing.
And then, like magnets pulled together, we reached out—falling into one last, lingering hug.
