Chapter 26: GoodBye

Alan's POV

I was done. Not loudly. Not angrily. Just done.

She called my name. I heard it break halfway through, like something fragile slipping out of her throat—but I didn't turn back.

Because if I looked at her even once, I would give in. And this time, I didn't want to.

When I saw her run out barefoot, something in me paused, instinct, habit or care.

I called out to her, but she didn't hear me, or she did but ignored it.

So I stepped out anyway, her flip-flops in my hand—not to stay, not to interfere, just because I couldn't ignore it, just because I cared.

And still she asked me to leave.

The words didn't hit immediately. They settled slowly, like something sinking deeper than it should.

"You're forcing yourself into her life." The thought settled, and for the first time, I didn't argue with it.

By the time I reached home, everything inside me had gone still, too still.

"You're back early," Mom called out.

"Yeah," I said, keeping it casual. "She left with her friend. Guess I can finally sleep without a disturbance."

She looked at me a second longer than usual. She knew something was off, but she didn't push.

"We could go out for dinner later," she said instead.

"Yeah. Sounds good," I replied, a little too quickly.

I walked into my room, closing the door behind me, and that's when the silence hit.

Because she was still there, her laughter, her voice, the way she held on to me like I was the only place she could fall apart.

I lay back on the bed and dragged a pillow over my face.

"Yeah…" I muttered into the quiet. "That wasn't mine to hold."

My phone buzzed. I didn't need to check. I already knew.

Still, I picked it up.

Milie calling. I let it ring. Then cut it. It rang again. And again.

I turned the phone over, face down, but a message lit up the screen anyway.

Milie: Alan, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

Milie: I wasn't in the right state of mind.

I stared at it longer than I should have. My fingers typed on their own.

Alan: You didn't have to ask me to leave like that.

I read it once, and I exhaled softly.

"No. This feels like begging her to understand me again. I don't want to anymore."

I deleted and typed again.

Alan: It's fine.

Her reply came instantly.

Milie: Please don't be mad. I know I messed up.

I didn't respond.

Not because I wanted to punish her, but because I didn't know how to answer without pretending nothing had changed when everything had.

The phone slipped out of my hand, and the screen lit up.

Not with text, but her picture, the one I had clicked that morning.

I stared at it longer than I should have, and the fragments of morning replayed.

She's arguing over nothing. Ruffling my hair like it meant nothing. Smiling like everything was easy.

I let out a quiet breath. "How does something feel so right…" I murmured, "and then… not belong at all?"

Because it didn't. Not really.

Not when someone else already had a place in her life that would never move.

"Daxton…" I said under my breath.

He wasn't temporary. He wasn't uncertain. He was permanent.

And I—I was something in between or nowhere.

I grabbed my keys and stepped out. I drove without a destination, just needed a motion, a distance from the feeling sitting too heavy in my chest.

The kind that didn't leave, no matter how far you went.

The next day at college, I saw her. Of course I did. She tried to reach me more than once. I noticed every time.

But I kept walking. Didn't slow down, didn't look back, until she finally stepped in front of me.

"Alan…" Her voice was softer, emotional. "Can we talk?"

I stopped. Not because I felt helpless, but because I wanted to give a final clarity for once and all.

"What?" I asked, my tone flat, distant.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "About yesterday. I didn't mean—"

"I know," I cut in.

She blinked, thrown"off. “You do?"

"Then why are you acting like this?" she asked. "Like I don't matter?"

I let out a slow breath. "You matter," I said. "That's exactly why I'm stepping back."

Her brows pulled together. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to."

For a second, I saw it clearly—hurt, confusion, guilt, all at once, sitting in her eyes.

"Alan—" She called out, her voice heavy, but this time, I didn't stay.

I knew something then. It would be hard to stay like this.

Same college. Same spaces. Same routines. Too close.

A few days ago, the professor announced a faculty-led program. Out of town. Eight weeks.

I had said no without thinking. But this moment changed my mind.

"I'm in," I told the professor.

He looked surprised at first, then pleased. "Good decision."

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. But it felt necessary.

Not to run away, but to step back before I lost whatever control I had left.

The night before I left, I went to her house. I made sure she wasn't there.

Her dad had just returned from the hospital. I couldn't leave without seeing him.

Not after the way he had held onto my hand that night, trusting me with something I didn't even know how to carry.

"Thank you, Alan," he said, his voice softer than I remembered.

I nodded. "You'll be back on your feet in no time."

We didn't talk much after that. It didn't need words. Some things don't. They survive even in silence.

Back home, I packed slowly. Clothes. Books. Essentials. Just enough for eight weeks.

Then I paused, my phone in my hand.

"I should tell her," I thought. "End it properly."

My thumb hovered over the screen. Her unread messages were sitting there like something unfinished.

"No, I'm not competing for a place that was never mine."

I shook my head and locked the phone before dropping it into the bag.

Early the next morning, before the city had fully woken up, I left.

No calls. No messages. No goodbyes. Just… GONE.