This Is How I Remember It

We were seventeen when it happened.

The last day. The last time.

I didn’t know it then, but sometimes, memory waits until years later to reveal its teeth. And when it does, it doesn’t ask permission.

It was March—the kind of early spring where winter still clings to the ground, but the sky starts promising something warmer. We met by the river, like always. That old place where the trees curved over the path and the water carried secrets downstream.

You were already there when I arrived, standing with your back to me, your old gray hoodie hanging loose over your frame. Your breath fogged the cold air, and even from ten feet away, I knew something was wrong.

You didn’t turn when you heard me.

I said your name, soft at first, then louder.

You looked over your shoulder. Your eyes met mine—briefly. But there was no smile. No warmth.

Just distance.

“I’m leaving,” you said, like it was something final.

Like a judge handing down a sentence.

You didn’t mean for the weekend.

Not for college.

You meant leaving for good. Leaving town. Leaving me.

I waited for the explanation.

The invitation to come with you.

The “I’m sorry” that never arrived.

Instead, you kicked a rock into the river and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

What couldn’t you do?

Live here? Pretend things were okay?

Love me?

You didn’t explain. You just stood there, fists in your pockets, like the moment was something to endure.

I remember your boots were muddy. You’d walked the path without caring. You always hated dirt, but you didn’t seem to mind it that day.

You walked past me, shoulders brushing mine. I wanted to grab your hand, say something, anything. But I froze.

I remember the air that day. How still it was. How it smelled like earth and woodsmoke and things that end.

I remember my red scarf. You’d always said it looked good on me, even though it was my mother’s and unraveling at the ends. I remember how your eyes lingered on it—one last glance.

Then you were gone.

And the only thing louder than your silence

was the sound of the river behind me,

pulling everything forward,

while I stayed behind.