The email came on a Thursday afternoon.
Eli read it alone in his room.
He had applied to the early start program almost on impulse. Something to focus on. Something that wasn't her.
He hadn't expected to get in.
But there it was.
Congratulations.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
Start date: Three months from now.
Three months.
Earlier than planned. Faster than expected.
It felt like escape.
It felt like momentum.
It felt like relief.
And it felt like something else too.
Loss.
He closed his laptop slowly.
Across the hall, Nora was doing homework, unaware that time had just shifted again.
—
She found out two days later.
Not from Eli.
From Mrs. Callahan.
"Oh! Nora, did Eli tell you?" Mrs. Callahan asked cheerfully while setting the table for dinner.
"Tell me what?"
"He got accepted into the early intake program! He'll be leaving this summer instead of fall. We're so proud of him."
The room tilted slightly.
Leaving.
This summer.
Instead of fall.
Her heartbeat grew loud in her ears.
"That's… amazing," she said, forcing a smile.
Mrs. Callahan beamed. "It's such a great opportunity."
Nora nodded.
Opportunity.
The word felt sharp.
Eli walked in just then, unaware of the emotional explosion quietly happening inside her.
"What are we talking about?" he asked.
"Your news!" Mrs. Callahan said, hugging him from the side.
He froze slightly.
His eyes met Nora's.
There it was.
The realization.
She hadn't known.
"Oh," he said calmly. "Yeah. I was going to mention it."
When?
After he packed?
After he left?
She swallowed the questions rising in her throat.
"That's really great," she repeated.
Their eyes held for a second too long.
He looked away first.
—
Dinner felt unbearable.
Conversation flowed around her — plans, logistics, housing, schedules.
Three months.
Three months until the hallway would be empty.
Three months until his door wouldn't be across from hers.
Three months until "space" became permanent.
After dinner, she found him on the back porch.
The evening air was cool. Quiet.
"You were going to mention it?" she asked.
He didn't pretend not to know what she meant.
"Yeah."
"When?"
He leaned against the railing. "I didn't think it mattered."
The words stung.
"It matters," she said.
"Why?" he asked softly.
Because I love you.
Because I'm running out of time.
Because I was wrong.
But the words stayed trapped.
She crossed her arms instead. "You're leaving earlier. That's not small."
"It's good for me."
"I know."
Silence stretched between them again.
"You asked for space," he added gently. "I figured… this makes it easier."
Easier.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You think leaving makes it easier?"
"For you," he said.
That hurt more than anger ever could.
"You don't get to decide what's easier for me," she whispered.
He studied her face carefully.
"Then tell me."
Her throat closed.
Say it.
Just say it.
But fear — that old familiar fear — wrapped around her ribs again.
What if she confessed and he still left?
What if she was too late?
"I just think," she began carefully, "you should have told me."
He nodded slowly.
"You're right."
No argument.
No emotion.
Just calm acceptance.
And suddenly she realized something terrifying:
He was preparing himself to detach.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
But deliberately.
He stepped back from the railing.
"I have packing lists to figure out," he said.
And then he walked inside.
Leaving her alone on the porch.
Again.
—
That night, Nora lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Three months.
That was all she had.
Three months to either stay silent…
Or risk everything.
For the first time, fear wasn't about losing him someday.
It was about losing him soon.
And maybe permanently.
Across the hall, Eli packed away an old soccer medal into a small box.
He paused when he heard her shifting in her room.
Three months, he thought.
Three months to learn how to stop hoping.
He closed the box.
And for the first time since he applied—
Leaving didn't feel like opportunity.
It felt like surrender.