“I’m gonna be gone for a bit,” I said.
She slowed. “Gone how?”
“Leave,” I said. “Medical. Short-term.”
She studied my face. “How long is a bit?”
I exhaled. “I can’t really talk about it. HIPAA and all that.” A pause. “But… I need to get my head straight. Figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
She didn’t interrupt. That was Beth—she always let people finish.
“I’ve been pretending,” I went on. “Going out. Spending money. Acting like there was no tomorrow. This whole summer—I lived like there wasn’t.”
“That’s because,” she said softly, “it felt like there wasn’t.”
I looked at her.
“We were living the dream,” she continued. “Best jobs we’d ever had. Friends. Boats. Weekends that never ended. It felt like the future was wide open. Like anything was possible.”
She kicked at a pile of leaves. They scattered.
“And then,” she said, “we all got slapped with the truth. That everything can be taken. Anyone. Anytime. In ways you could never see coming.”
I swallowed.
“I get it,” she said, meeting my eyes. “Go. Clear your head. Figure yourself out.”
She hesitated, then added, “Honestly? I might not be here when you get back.”
My chest tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I think I need to leave too,” she admitted. “Find something… lighter. This place feels like a tomb.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to explain.”
We stopped walking.
“Listen,” I said. “Whatever you do—use me as a reference. Anytime. I won’t say a word to Jim. Put my name down. For anything.”
Her eyes shined, just a little. “Thank you.”
“Seriously,” I said. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
She smiled then, small but real.
We stood there a moment longer, two people trying to memorize something that was already slipping away.
“Take care of yourself, Ethan,” she said.
“You too, Beth.”
We hugged—quick, awkward, sincere.
Then she turned back toward the building.
I went the other way.
And as the leaves scraped along the sidewalk behind me, I realized something simple and terrifying and true:
