~Quinn~

"When were you going to tell me, Noah? The day you left? From the airport?"

The words come out sharper than I intended, slicing through the silence of his bedroom. Noah stands frozen in the doorway, snowflakes still melting in his dark hair, his face drained of all color.

The acceptance letter lies on the floor between us like evidence at a crime scene.

'University of London. Master of Architecture Program. Start Date: January 2nd.'

Fifteen days from now.

"I was going to tell you." His voice is barely a whisper, and I almost can't hear it over the sound of my heart breaking. "I wanted to find the right time."

"The right time?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. My hands are shaking, so I curl them into fists at my sides. "We've seen each other every day for the past three weeks. We went to see Christmas lights together yesterday. You bought me hot chocolate and told me about your application to the state university—"

I stop.

The state university.

The local one. The one that would keep him here, twenty minutes away, close enough that nothing would have to change.

"You lied," I breathe, the realization hitting me like ice water. "You made me think you were staying local. You let me believe—"

"I didn't lie," Noah cuts in, taking a step toward me. "I did apply there. I just... I also applied to London."

"And you got in."

The cream-colored paper with its gold embossed crest says everything I need to know.

He nods, slowly, miserably.

I should be happy for him. This is what I'm supposed to feel, right? Joy for my best friend who just got accepted into his dream program with a full scholarship. I should be jumping up and down, throwing my arms around him, telling him how proud I am.

Instead, I feel like someone has reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it stopped beating.

"Say something," Noah whispers, and his voice cracks on the last word.

I bend down and pick up the letter with numb fingers. The paper is expensive, heavy stock that probably costs more than my entire college application fee. I read it again, slower this time, torturing myself with the details.

"Full tuition scholarship."

"Prestigious international cohort."

"Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Each phrase is a punch in my chest, a reminder of whatever stupid, secret hope I've been carrying around for the past six years.

"This is amazing," I manage, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Really amazing, Noah. This is everything you've wanted."

The words taste like ash in my mouth, bitter and dry.

"Quinn—"

"No, I mean it." I look up at him, willing myself not to cry. Not yet. Not in front of him. "This is incredible. The full scholarship alone—do you know how competitive this program is? You should be celebrating."

Noah takes another step closer, and I can see the conflict written all across his face. The same face I've known for eleven years. The same warm brown eyes that have looked at me every single day since we were seven years old.

"I was going to tell you at Christmas," he says quietly. "I didn't want to ruin—"

"Ruin what?" The anger surges back, hot and sharp. "The holidays? Our last few days together? When exactly would have been the perfect time to tell me you're leaving the country in nine days?"

He flinches like I've slapped him.

I need to stop. I need to swallow this hurt, push it down deep where it belongs, and be the supportive best friend Noah needs. That's what I've always been, isn't it? Quinn Rivers, the girl who cheers from the sidelines. Quinn Rivers, who never complains, never asks for too much, never rocks the boat.

Quinn Rivers, who has been hopelessly, desperately in love with her best friend since she was fifteen years old and has never said a single word about it.

"I need to go." The words come out strangled.

"Please don't leave like this." Noah's voice breaks completely now, and the sound of it nearly undoes me. "Can we just—can we talk about this? Please?"

"What's there to talk about?" I move toward the door, careful not to brush against him as I pass. If I touch him right now, I'll shatter into a thousand pieces. "You're leaving. That's your choice. And it's a good choice. The right choice."

Even as I say it, I know I'm lying. This isn't right. None of this is right. But what am I supposed to do? Ask him to stay? Beg him to give up his dream for me?

For what, exactly? A friendship? A relationship that only exists in my head?

"Quinn." He catches my wrist as I reach for the doorknob, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. I've held this hand a thousand times—crossing streets, navigating crowds, during scary movies when I needed something solid to grip onto.

This might be one of the last times I ever hold it.

The thought makes my chest physically ache.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and when I look at him, there are tears in his eyes too. "I'm so sorry."

I gently pull my hand free, even though it feels like tearing off my own skin.

"Congratulations," I manage, my voice barely audible. "Really. I'm happy for you."

Then I turn the doorknob and walk out.

Down the hallway with its familiar family photos. Past the bathroom where Noah taught me how to do a proper hair braid when we were twelve. Down the stairs I've climbed a million times. Through the kitchen where his mom is pulling cookies out of the oven.

"Quinn! Oh, sweetie, do you want to stay for dinner? I'm making—"

"I can't," I interrupt, not stopping. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I have to go."

I don't hear what she says next. There's a ringing in my ears, high-pitched and constant, drowning out everything else.

I make it to my car before the first sob breaks free.

My hands shake so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. The tears are coming faster now, hot and relentless, blurring my vision. I grip the steering wheel and let myself fall apart in the privacy of my beat-up Honda Civic, surrounded by fast food wrappers and the hoodie Noah left in my backseat two weeks ago.

My phone buzzes.

Noah: I'm sorry

Buzz.

Noah: Please come back

Buzz.

Noah: We need to talk about this

I turn my phone face-down on the passenger seat and start the engine.

The drive home passes in a blur. I don't remember turning onto my street or pulling into the driveway. I just suddenly find myself sitting in the garage with the engine off, staring at the concrete wall, trying to figure out how my entire world shifted on its axis in the space of five minutes.

Fifteen days.

I have Fifteen days left with Noah Hayes.

And then he's gone.

Forever feels like too small a word for what that means.