The Soft Goodbye That Already Hurt

"Love doesn't always leave with a bang. Sometimes it leaves with a suitcase and a promise."

The box of postcards sat unopened at the bottom of Yuna's bag.

She'd bought them weeks ago, on impulse, from a tiny gift shop that smelled like cinnamon and paper. The cards were faded watercolors of cities she hadn't visited, stories she hadn't written yet. Each one a quiet hope — something to send to Eli while she was away.

She hadn't written a single word on them yet.

She didn't know how to say goodbye to someone who hadn't asked her to stay.

The days moved faster now.

Her departure date was circled on her wall calendar — thick red ink, a small star scribbled next to it. A week. Seven days. Less than two laundry cycles. Less than ten coffees. Just a handful of late-night walks.

She didn't tell anyone how often she counted them.

Eli didn't bring it up again after that rooftop night.

And Yuna didn't push it.

Instead, they folded themselves into small rituals — unspoken, precious, unrepeatable.

He started walking her to class again, even when his own started twenty minutes later.

She left handwritten notes on his café register, tucked under the sugar jar, small things like: you looked calm today or I'm proud of you, even on your tired days.

They didn't talk about the end.

They just tried to love the middle harder.

One afternoon, Yuna found herself in the bookstore where she and Eli had once lost hours.

She wandered through the poetry section, fingers grazing the spines of books like brushing memories. Everything looked the same. But she didn't feel the same.

She picked up a book by an author she'd once adored — someone whose words used to make her ache — and flipped through it.

Nothing landed.

It was then she realized: she'd outgrown things without noticing.

But not Eli.

Not yet.

Mina sat beside her on the dorm floor that night, paint-stained sweatpants on, hair in a towel.

"I'm going to miss you," Mina said, chewing a piece of gum loudly.

"I haven't left yet."

"Still."

Yuna smiled softly. "You've always been my anchor."

"And you've always been my softest chaos," Mina replied. "Don't disappear when you go. Call me. Text. Write a dramatic poem. Send Eli cryptic voice messages."

"I'll try to be annoying," Yuna promised.

Mina went quiet, then added, "I know you're scared."

"I am."

"Don't let fear write the ending."

"I won't," Yuna whispered. "I'm just trying to write it slowly."

The night before her final Saturday in Havenbrook, Eli invited her over. No plans. No expectations.

She found him sitting on his apartment floor, a blanket spread out like a picnic. Candles flickered along the windowsill, and soft jazz hummed from his record player.

"Are we having a date or a farewell ceremony?" she asked, half teasing, half aching.

"Neither," he said. "We're having right now."

They ate takeout and shared a carton of strawberries — the same as their rooftop night. Yuna let herself laugh. She let herself lean back and stretch into his presence like a familiar song.

They didn't talk about the calendar.

But they both felt it ticking.

Later, they sat on the balcony, knees touching, quiet again.

Yuna looked at him for a long moment before asking, "Are you mad at me?"

Eli looked up, startled. "What? No."

"You haven't said much about me leaving. I thought maybe—"

"I'm not mad," he said gently. "I'm just trying to memorize you."

Her breath caught.

"You're not something I want to be bitter about," he added. "You're something I want to carry gently. Even if it hurts."

Yuna blinked against the sudden sting in her eyes. "How can you always say things like that?"

"Because I mean them."

She didn't sleep that night.

Neither did he.

They stayed up on the floor, whispering in the dark, letting the candlelight play shadows across the wall. They talked about things that didn't matter — favorite songs, dream cities, ridiculous baby names — because sometimes, the unimportant things are the safest place to land.

At one point, Yuna turned to him and said, "I'm scared of forgetting how this feels."

Eli didn't answer. He just reached over and pressed her hand to his chest.

"Then let this remind you."

The next morning, she woke before him.

Watched him sleep for a few quiet moments — his arm flung over his face, the blankets kicked to one side, mouth slightly open.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Soft.

Grateful.

And then she wrote something in her journal while he slept:

"This is the love I'll write about when I'm old — the one that made leaving feel like blooming."

The next few days passed too fast.

Yuna started packing slowly — one drawer at a time. Books first. Clothes next. She left her notebooks for last.

She found the box of postcards again.

Still blank.

This time, she opened it.

She wrote three lines on the first one.

Eli.This isn't the end.Just the part where we choose to believe.

She tucked it in his jacket pocket while he wasn't looking.

The night before she left, they stood in front of the train station.

Neither said what they were thinking.

Yuna touched his face.

"Will you wait for me?"

Eli didn't hesitate.

"I'll be here when you come back."

She kissed him.

Not rushed. Not sad.

Just slow.

Like a promise.