The Longest Parting

Dani always hated endings.

She said that once while sprawled across her favorite corduroy beanbag in my dorm room, twirling a pen between her fingers. “Endings suck,” she declared. “I like middles. Middles are comfy. Middles are where you can breathe.”

But life, as I would learn again and again, doesn’t ask for our permission before it ends chapters. It just turns pages.

That truth arrived for me on a fog-thick November morning, years after she first said it—when the world felt like it was drifting apart at the seams, and I was clinging to the last frayed thread.

And she was leaving.

Not forever. Not in the tragic sense people whisper about in hospital rooms or over caskets. No—she was breathing, laughing, radiating that wild comet-energy she always carried.

She just wasn’t staying.

Not in our town.

Not in our shared orbit.

Not in the place where our stories had overlapped for so long it felt like a single line.

She had packed two duffel bags—one patched with stickers from every city she’d lived in, the other suspiciously lumpy with sketchbooks. And at the edge of the old train platform, she stood on her toes to look down the tracks. Fog swirled around her boots like she was some kind of wandering spirit.

“Train’s late,” she said lightly, then kicked the fog like it offended her. “Figures. Drama queen.”

I laughed, but my throat felt tight. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah.” She cracked a grin—bright, reckless. “It’s time.”

Time.

Funny how one word could feel like being punched and hugged at the same time.

1. The Last Week

A person can live a whole lifetime in seven days.

We did.

Day One:

We sat on the college quad with warm pretzels from Old Man Harvey’s cart. She kept talking about the art program she’d been accepted into across the country. I kept pretending the mustard stain on her sweater was fascinating.

“You should come visit,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I’ll show you all the pretentious cafés.”

“And the museums,” I added.

“And the bookstores where the workers judge you.”

“And the murals that look like someone sneezed paint.”

She pointed dramatically. “Exactly. Culture.”

I memorized every tone in her voice.

Day Two:

We wandered the boardwalk in our small coastal town. The ocean heaved against the pilings like it was trying to speak.

She bought saltwater taffy, chewed thoughtfully, then fed half the bag to the gulls. I told her they were going to wage war on her car for that; she said she welcomed the challenge.

“You act like I’m going to the moon,” she teased as we leaned on the railing.

“It’s farther than the moon,” I muttered.

“Aww, someone’s being dramatic.” She flicked my forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you on the other side.”

I frowned. “The other side of what?”

She shrugged. “Everything, probably.”

Day Three:

We visited the tree we carved our initials into freshman year of high school. She pressed her palm against the worn bark.

“Look,” she whispered. “It’s grown.”

“So have we.”

“Yeah.” Her smile dimmed. “That part’s weird.”

Day Four:

We fought.

Nothing explosive. Just simmering words and silence. I didn’t want her to go. She didn’t want to stay. Both truths hurt.

At one point she said, “You’re acting like I’m disappearing.”

And I’d snapped back, “Aren’t you?”

She looked at me like I’d torn a painting she’d worked years on.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day.

Day Five:

She showed up at my door with a jar of peanut butter, a spoon, and that sheepish lopsided smile.

“Truce?”

I held the spoon out like a peace offering. “Only if you explain why you brought peanut butter.”

“I panicked.”

“Fair.”

We sat on my porch swing, legs touching, spoon-sharing, saying things with silence that words weren’t ready to hold.

Day Six:

We packed—her items into bags, mine into memories. She tossed her whole life into two duffels while I folded myself inward, smaller and smaller.

“Tell me something to take with me,” she said while rolling a sweater.

I thought of the tree, the boardwalk, the gulls, the mustard stain.

“You already have everything,” I whispered.

She paused, eyes softening.

“I’ll see you someday in Fiddler’s Green,” she murmured.

I swallowed. “You promise?”

“I do.”

Day Seven:

The train—the platform—the fog.

And the end of the middle.

2. The Platform

The platform smelled like old wood, steel, and departures.

Dani bounced on her heels. “Train’s still late. Which is rude, honestly. I am a delight.”

“You are,” I said, voice cracking slightly.

She reached into her bag and pulled out one of her sketchbooks—the battered orange one with tape on the spine.

“I want you to have this.”

I blinked. “Dani, this is—this is your favorite one.”

“Exactly. You’ll take care of it.”

My fingers hesitated before touching the cover. She nudged it closer.

“Go on.”

Inside were pages of her art—watercolors, charcoal, ink. Messy lines. Explosions of color. Portraits of strangers. Portraits of me.

One page caught my breath.

Us.

Sitting at the foot of the carved tree, shoulders touching, eyes closed against the sunlight.

“You drew this the day after we carved our initials,” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

“And you never showed me.”

“You’d have cried.”

“I might cry now,” I admitted.

“Same.” She snorted. “Let’s not.”

Her laugh trembled, the edges sharp.

The fog thickened until the tracks disappeared. The world felt small. Like just the two of us existed.

“You’re gonna do incredible things,” I said, finally looking up from the sketchbook.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna miss having you to brag to afterward,” she said.

“You can still brag. Call me.”

“Call you? Honey, I’m gonna spam you. You’ll beg me to stop.”

“Never.”

“Wanna bet?”

We were both smiling too hard.

Then the faint horn of the approaching train echoed across the bay.

And the smile on her face flickered like a candle.

3. The Last Words Before Leaving

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. Don’t make a weird face.”

“I’m not!”

“You are absolutely making a weird face. Like a constipated sea otter.”

“That’s just my regular face!”

“Exactly.”

The train squealed in the distance, metal grinding. A gust of wind pushed the fog aside, revealing the engine rounding the bend, massive and unstoppable.

Dani squared her shoulders, but her fingers twitched.

“You can stay,” I said, too softly.

“No,” she replied gently. “I can’t.”

She turned to me fully, the wind blowing strands of hair across her cheeks.

“This isn’t me leaving you behind,” she said.

“This is me shifting chapters. You’re still in the story.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Then trust me.” She poked my chest. “You’ve been my person since we were ten. That doesn’t change.”

I’d rehearsed a thousand things to say. Smart things. Brave things. But all that came out was:

“I don’t want this moment to end.”

Her expression cracked—barely, but I saw it.

“Hey,” she whispered, stepping closer and pressing her forehead to mine. “Listen. I’ll see you someday in Fiddler’s Green. And until then…”

She lifted her hand and saluted me with two fingers.

“Catch ya on the flipside.”

A laugh escaped me and turned into something wetter. “Peace out, girl scout?”

She grinned. “Dani out.”

And then—

She did the thing I wasn’t prepared for.

She kissed my cheek.

A soft, warm imprint.

A moment that carved itself into bone.

“For luck,” she murmured.

Then the train shuddered to a stop behind her.

She stepped back.

Picked up her bags.

And walked toward the open door.

4. Moments After

There’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t belong to the world—only to those left standing after someone walks away.

That quiet settled over me like fresh snow.

I watched her find a seat by the window. She pressed her palm against the glass. I pressed mine to the air outside it.

The train hissed, lurched, began to move.

She mouthed something, though I couldn’t hear it.

But I knew what she said.

See you on the other side.

The wheels clattered, picking up speed.

Fog swallowed the rear car.

And she was gone.

Not disappeared.

But gone from here.

Gone from me—at least in the physical sense.

The middle, the part she loved, had shifted.

I stood on the empty platform long after the last echo faded. The world became soundless except for the thump of my heartbeat.

In my hands, the orange sketchbook felt warm. Alive. Like she had left a piece of her spirit in the pages.

I whispered into the fog,

“I’ll see you someday in Fiddler’s Green.”

My voice didn’t break.

Much.

5. Aftermath

Life after Dani left was strange.

The town felt too quiet without her chaotic commentary. My phone felt too empty without her messages. The boardwalk gulls looked confused without their taffy princess.

But the world didn’t stop.

It rarely does for one person’s grief.

Days became weeks; weeks became months. The middle kept going, even without the person who’d made it bright.

But she kept her promise.

She spammed me with pictures of her new apartment—a shoebox with peeling wallpaper and a window view of an alley where a suspicious cat ruled like a tyrant.

She video-called me from street markets and museums and cafés that sold drinks with pretentious swirling foam art.

She sent audio messages when she was too tired to type.

Me? I sent pictures of the ocean, the tree, and every new mustard stain I discovered just to make her laugh.

But between the messages and calls, between the noise and screens, there were quiet moments—when I would flip open her sketchbook and run my thumb over the portrait of us under the tree. When I would hear her laugh in my memory. When I would feel that phantom warmth on my cheek from the train station.

Those moments were mine.

Sacred.

Soft.

Moments that hurt—but in the best way.

The way that means the story mattered.

6. One Year Later

The calendar circled itself back to November.

Fog rolled in.

The ocean groaned.

And I returned to the old train platform.

Not because I expected her to step off the next train—though the thought made my pulse skip—but because I wanted to stand where a chapter had closed and feel how far I had come since.

I stood at the edge of the platform, sketchbook under my coat. Wind tugged at the pages. I opened to a blank one.

And I started drawing.

Badly.

Horribly.

The stick figures looked like they were battling existential dread.

I laughed alone, the sound drifting into the fog.

I wasn’t an artist.

But I was trying.

Trying to fill in the new pages of my own story.

A distant horn sounded. My chest tightened instinctively.

A train approached—then slowed—then stopped. People stepped off. A few stepped on.

But she wasn’t there.

I didn’t expect her to be.

She was living her middle, like she always wanted.

Still, I whispered, “Catch ya on the flipside,” to the departing train, because it felt right.

Then—

“Peace out, girl scout.”

I froze.

Turned.

And there she was.

Standing at the platform entrance, two bags slung over her shoulders, hair longer, smile the same.

My heart forgot how to beat.

Her grin turned mischievous. “What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What—how—why—?”

She shrugged. “School’s over. Art show’s done. I missed home.”

I drew a shaky breath. “You—you came back.”

“For a bit.” She nudged my shoulder. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Yeah,” I managed. “You did.”

She looked at me for a long quiet moment, eyes softening.

“Still got Fiddler’s Green ahead of us,” she said. “Still got the flipside waiting. The story? It’s not finished. Not even close.”

I opened my mouth—but she lifted a finger.

“Hold that thought,” she said, hoisting her bags. “My arms are killing me.”

I laughed—hard—because the weight in my chest suddenly felt light again.

She stepped close enough for our shoulders to brush.

“Ready?” she asked.

“For what?”

“For the next chapter.”

She winked.

“Dani in.”

I shook my head, grinning. “Let’s go.”

Side by side, we walked off the platform—

into the fog,

into the future,

into whatever middles awaited us.

No endings.

Not today.

And as we stepped forward, she reached for my hand and whispered, warm and steady:

“I’ll see you someday in Fiddler’s Green.”

THE END