27. Ethan
Chapter twenty-seven
Ethan
As the days dwindle, each one slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass, summer’s warm embrace begins to fade. The once lively seaside town softens, its colors dimming as if the whole place knows what’s coming—the goodbye I’ve been dreading.
I make my way next door to Ami’s, each step heavier than the last. From inside I hear the shuffle of boxes, the rustle of her life being packed into neat little squares. It’s the sound of endings, and it makes my chest ache.
I knock softly. After a beat the door creaks open, and there she is—hair pulled back, t-shirt a little rumpled, surrounded by the chaos of leaving. Her smile is small, strained, and doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice rough.
“Hey,” she whispers, barely meeting my gaze before her eyes dart away, as if looking at me too long will undo her.
Inside, the air feels tight, thick with all the words neither of us want to say. “I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” I blurt.
She goes back to folding clothes, but her hands linger longer than they should on the sundress draped across the chair.
The one she wore when we picnicked by the beach.
She smooths the fabric slowly, almost tenderly, like she doesn’t really want to pack it away.
“I know,” she murmurs. Her voice cracks, just barely.
“It’s hard to believe it’s all coming to an end. ”
For a second her eyes lift to mine—glossy, unguarded—and it’s there. The truth. She doesn’t want to go.
Later, we’re on Aunt Maggie’s porch, watching the sunset smear the horizon in pinks and golds. The silence stretches between us, heavy with what neither of us is saying.
“So, I guess this is it,” Ami says, her voice light, but her fingers twist in her lap, betraying her calm tone.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I force a laugh, though it tastes bitter.
“At least we made some pretty awesome memories, right?” Her smile is wistful, her eyes shining too brightly in the fading light.
“Yeah. We did. More than I ever expected.” She swallows hard, then adds softly, “And I’ll miss you.
Most of all, I’ll miss you. “The way she says it—it’s too fast, too casual, like she’s trying to throw it away before I notice how much it costs her.
But I do notice. I feel it like a punch.
I reach for her hand. She hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—and then her fingers slide into mine, warm and trembling. She doesn’t look at me, but her thumb strokes lightly over my skin, absent-minded, like she can’t help it.
The night before she leaves, I can’t sleep. The thought of her slipping away tomorrow makes my chest feel hollow. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m outside her door under the glow of a streetlamp, knocking like a fool.
The door opens, and Ami peers out, hair mussed from sleep, eyes heavy. But when she sees me, something softens—like she’s relieved I came. “Ethan?” she mumbles.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit. “I thought maybe we could hit the beach. Watch the sunrise. One last time.”
She blinks, caught between groggy disbelief and something brighter. Then she smiles—a smile that cracks through all the sadness. “Okay. Give me a sec.”
We walk through the quiet streets, stars scattered above us. Her arm brushes mine every few steps, and even when there’s space on the sidewalk, she doesn’t move away.
On the sand, she slips her hand into mine again, no hesitation this time. She looks out at the ocean, but her thumb moves in small circles against my palm, like she doesn’t want me to forget she’s there.
The words crowd my chest, choking me. I want to tell her everything—that I want every sunrise, every laugh, every look. But all I manage is, “So, I’ve been thinking.”
She turns, eyebrow arched, lips twitching into a half-smile. “About what?” Her eyes search mine longer than they should, curiosity shading into something more vulnerable.
I scratch the back of my neck. “About us. About this summer.”
Her smirk is playful, but her voice comes out softer. “Hard to miss your constant presence.” Her cheeks flush even as she says it, and she looks away too quickly.
And I know. She feels it too.
I take a breath. “Okay, here it is. I kinda, sorta, really like you, Ami.”
Her eyebrows lift, but the corners of her mouth tug upward. “Oh, do you now?” Her voice is teasing, but her eyes shine, wide and bright, like she’s been waiting for this.
“Yeah,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. “I really do.”
She closes the space between us with a light touch on my arm, her fingers lingering longer than they need to. “Good,” she says softly, her gaze locking with mine. “Because I like you too. A lot.”
Her admission is quiet, but her eyes… they burn with everything she hasn’t said.
I grin like an idiot. “Wait. Seriously?”
She laughs, but there’s no hiding the tremor in her voice. “Seriously. I’m not ready to say goodbye just because summer’s ending.”
“Then let’s not,” I blurt. “I know long-distance is tough, but I’ll take tough if it means I still get you.”
She laughs again, lighter this time, and it spills out like a promise. “Count me in.”
The moonlight paints her silver as the waves crash behind her, and for the first time I let myself believe she’s mine.
Back at her house, Ami suddenly boots up her laptop.
Her expression is one of amazement, or joy, or …
something I just can’t describe . Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, as her fingers fly over the keys.
I sit close, just watching—because she looks like she is in a trance, and laser-focused.
She bites her lip when she’s thinking, laughs under her breath when the words come fast, and every little thing she does makes my chest ache.
When she finally stops, she leans back, eyes shining. “There!” she shouts. “I’m done, done, done.” So, I lean in to read.
In the end, it’s not about the grand gestures or the sweeping romances.
It’s about the quiet moments shared under the stars, the laughter that echoes through the streets, and the feeling of being truly seen and understood.
It’s about realizing that love isn’t a destination; it’s a journey.
Sometimes, the most beautiful destinations are the ones we find along the way.
It’s not about the places we search or the dreams we chase.
It’s about the moments we share, the bonds we forge, and the love that surrounds us.
Sometimes, what we’ve been seeking all along is right in front of us.
My throat tightens. She doesn’t even realize she’s written us on that page. Everything I’ve felt—everything I couldn’t say—she’s just laid bare without knowing it.
“Ami, this is… incredible,” I whisper.
She looks up, and for once she doesn’t joke, doesn’t deflect. Her eyes search mine, wide and searching, as if she’s asking for more than my words, “You really think so?”
I can’t look away. “Yeah. I really do.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say something else, but she doesn’t. Instead, her hand brushes mine under the table, lingering, deliberate. And in that touch, I feel everything she can’t quite say out loud.
As the lamplight warms the room, as the night folds in around us, I know the truth: I don’t just want one more sunrise, one more summer.
I want every season. Every year. Every tomorrow.
Ami isn’t just my summer.
She’s my always.