Friday nights had become routine.

Me and Jake would meet up around eight, usually at the same gas station a few minutes from town. We'd grab something to eat, sit in the parking lot, and talk about whatever came to mind. Sometimes we'd drive around for hours without really going anywhere. It wasn't exciting, but that was kind of the point.

That Friday felt normal at first.

Jake showed up a little late. He got out of the car, bought a drink, then came back and barely said anything.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

He wasn't.

I didn't push it. We drove around for a while, music playing, windows cracked because it wasn't quite cold enough to shut them.

Eventually he pulled into a parking lot overlooking the town.

"I gotta tell you something."

He stared through the windshield.

"My family's moving tomorrow."

I laughed at first because I thought he was messing with me.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Like...moving?"

"Yeah. Different state."

I just sat there.

"You knew?"

"For a few weeks."

That part pissed me off more than anything.

"You couldn't tell me?"

He shrugged.

"I didn't wanna make it weird."

"Well, you kinda made it weird."

He laughed.

Then neither of us said anything for a while.

We went back to the gas station. Got food. Drove around. Talked about random stuff. We never really talked about him leaving again.

Around one in the morning, we ended up back at the overlook.

He finally said, "I figured if I told you, every Friday after that would just feel like a countdown."

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I didn't.

We just sat there until almost three.

The next morning, I woke up to a text.

Thanks for last night.

I texted back.

Nothing.

I checked again later.

Nothing.

When I finally went outside, his driveway was empty.

A week later, we were still texting.

Then the messages got shorter.

A few weeks became a month.

Eventually, we stopped.

Months later, I drove past that gas station.

I slowed down without thinking.

Same lights. Same parking lot. Same place we'd spent probably a hundred Friday nights.

Except his car wasn't there.

And for some reason, I sat there for a minute anyway.

I hadn’t told Callum because I thought the pressure of a ticking time bomb would kill us before I had even left.

My parents told me in the kitchen, standing up, arms crossed, saying 'we needed to chat,' which made me feel like I was in trouble before I even got there.

"Four weeks," Mom said. "We wanted you to have time."

I remember thinking that was a strange thing to say it. Like they were giving me time to prepare, like leaving your entire life behind was something you could rehearse for. I went upstairs and sat on my bed and did the math. Four weeks was four Fridays. If he didn't know, nothing changed. We'd have normal Fridays, normal drives, normal nothing. What I didn't think about was how much work it is to act normal when you're not. The first Friday, I almost said it twice. Once at the gas station, when Callum was arguing about whether Doritos were overrated. Once at the overlook, when it got quiet and I could feel the words sitting right behind my teeth.

I said, "Nice night."

By the second week, I started noticing things I'd never paid attention to, the crack in the pavement by the ice machine, the way the one light over pump four flickered, how Callum always got the same blue razz slush, I was memorizing everything, and unable to tell him I was doing so. Packing started in the third week. Boxes appeared in the hallway, then in my room. I kept mine in the closet so he wouldn't see them if he ever came inside.

The night before the move, I almost cancelled. I sat in the driveway with the engine off, telling myself I could just text him that I was sick. Let the last Friday be a normal one he never knew was the last.

But that felt worse, like the guilt of stealing something bubbling up in my chest and pooling behind my teeth, so I went. I showed up late because I'd stood in my empty room for ten minutes, looking at the marks on the wall where my posters used to be. I bought a drink I didn't want. I got back in the car and couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

It was the easiest lie I'd ever told and the worst.

When I finally pulled into the overlook, my hands were sweating on the wheel.

"I gotta tell you something." I couldn't look at him. I watched the lights of the town instead, all those little windows, and wondered which of them would still be on after I was gone.

I told him. He laughed, because he thought I was joking, and then he stopped laughing, and that was the part I'd been dreading.

"You couldn't tell me?"

"I didn't wanna make it weird."

It was a stupid thing to say. I knew it as it came out. He said I'd made it weird anyway. I laughed because it was true, and because the alternative was something I didn't want to do in front of him. After that, we did what we always did. Food. Driving. Talking about nothing. I kept waiting for him to bring it up again, and part of me was relieved when he didn't, and part of me wanted him to ask me anything. Where. Why. Whether I was scared.

I was.

Around one, we ended up back at the overlook, and the quiet came back, heavier this time. I figured I owed him the rest of it.

"I figured if I told you, every Friday after that would just feel like a countdown."

He didn't say anything. I thought maybe I'd ruined it. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, or the right thing said too late. Then he stayed. He just stayed, and so did I, until the sky started to turn that dull gray that comes before morning and I knew I had to go. I dropped him off at his house, and he said 'see you', and we both knew itw as a lie, but neither of us said anything.

I sat in the back seat of my parents' car with my forehead against the window, watching our street get smaller, and I took out my phone.

Thanks for last night.

It was the only thing I could think of that was true. I stared at it for a long time before I hit send. Then I watched the screen, waiting for the little dots, for anything. Nothing came. I told myself he was asleep. We were texting a week later, and it almost felt okay. Almost. I'd send him pictures of the new house, the weird gas station by the highway, the sunsets that looked weird against the new treeline. He'd send back short answers. I told myself that was just how he texted.

Then the gaps got longer. Then I stopped sending the pictures, because it felt like talking to a wall.

Months later, I was driving home from a shift at my new job and passed a gas station with a flickering light over one of the pumps. I pulled in without thinking. I sat there with the engine running, looking at an empty spot in the lot. I got a bag of Doritos and a blue razz slush. I had a thousand things to say, and no one to say them to.

So I sat there a minute anyway.