I asked you if you were leaving.
Not because I didn’t know—
but because I couldn’t feel the ground
underneath the word goodbye.

You said,
“Yeah. Why?”
And I saw it in your eyes—
that same hesitation I carried
like a weight behind my ribs.

I asked again,
"When are you leaving?"
You gave me a month.
I asked again,
"When are you leaving leaving?"
Because dates are never what I want.
I want to know when the absence begins.
When the presence stops feeling like mine.

You said,
“December.”

I turned to walk away,
trying not to feel like a child
begging for a hand to hold
without ever reaching.

But then—
“Erm.”
A syllable caught like breath on a thread,
pulling me back.
I looked at you, waiting for the unravel.

You said,
“You still have two weeks with me.”

Like a gift.
Like a wound wrapped in ribbon.

Two weeks—
as if time ever listens when you ask it to slow down.
As if memory is gentle.
As if a goodbye with both hands
could ever be enough.

I smiled,
not with joy,
but with the ache of knowing
some people arrive
and leave
without ever needing to touch you
to leave fingerprints
all over who you are.

And I waved—
like a child
still believing
maybe, just maybe,
you’d stay
a little longer
if I looked back
long enough.