December 31st, 2035
The old cafe near university was warm. Fairy lights blink like tiny heartbeats against the frost on the windows. Inside, Elias watches Sana stir her coffee, her spoon clinking against the ceramic like a ticking clock.
She looks peaceful — that's what cuts him deepest. Not sad. Not afraid. Just… calm.
She pushes a napkin across the table. Her handwriting is still neat, as if her whole life has always fit into tidy lines:
"Thank you for making it easy to stay this long."
He tries to keep his voice steady.
"Why not more? Just one more year. Then decide."
She smiles — that same soft, tired smile she's carried since he first saw her under a streetlamp, all sharp elbows and hidden bruises.
"It's not about wanting to leave you. It's about not wanting to stay for everyone else."
She takes his hand — hers warm from the coffee cup. Her thumb traces his knuckles, memorizing the way they fit together.
"I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU ELIAS"
"I know… I Love you too Sana. So please, just one more year.. please…?"
The fireworks started before midnight. The cafe was half-empty — the world out there was celebrating what she's about to let go.
"I thought you'd change my mind."
"I thought I would too."
She laughs, soft and small.
"You did. You made me stay this long."
He wants to argue. He wants to say I'll find a way. I'll beg. I'll drag you past this line you drew for yourself.
But her eyes told him — she's not running away. She's closing a chapter she wrote herself.
She stood up. He knew this is it — the last coffee, the last small goodbye. But it didn't feel like dying. Not really. It felt like the final page of a letter you read again and again because you're terrified of forgetting how the ink looked.
She leans in. Her breath warm against his cheek.
"Thank you for not trying to save me when I didn't want saving."
He holds her tight. Just for a second. Long enough to know he'll carry that shape forever.
She steps back. Picks up her bag and walks away.
She looked back once at the door. And whispers with tears falling down, " I am sorry for not being strong enough to you. I loved you and still do…"
Years After
He never sees her again. Not really. Just flashes in old photos he never deletes. He keeps the journal in his drawer — the one that says Ten years on the first page and Thank you on the last.
Sometimes he sits in that same cafe. Orders her coffee, black, extra sugar.
People ask him if he regrets it — loving someone who already knew when she'd go.
He never says yes. He only says:
"I'm glad she stayed long enough to love me back in her way."
He lifts his coffee to the window, to the street she once stood on, a girl with a borrowed basketball and the saddest eyes he'd ever seen.
"Goodnight, Sana. Be free."
She kept her promise.
He kept his.
Love didn't need to last forever — it only needed to be real.