The school day ended the way it always did — the bell ringing too loudly, students flooding the hallways, bags slung over shoulders and voices echoing off the lockers. But something felt strange.
Off.
Heavy.
Olivia walked beside me as we left the building, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. She didn't say much, which wasn't unusual, but today her silence wasn't calm or thoughtful.
It was tight.
"Hey," I said, bumping her arm, "do you want to go to the forest for a bit before going home?"
She stopped walking.
Just stopped.
And something in my chest tightened. Olivia usually agreed without thinking. The forest was our place — our quiet corner of the world where nothing hurt and everything made sense.
But today, her shoulders tensed.
"I don't… think that's a good idea," she said, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Why not?" I laughed lightly, expecting some dramatic Olivia-reason. "Are we suddenly scared of trees?"
She didn't smile.
She didn't even pretend to.
Instead she stepped away, only a little, but enough that the distance felt like a wall.
"Kate," she said, voice low, "there's something I haven't told you."
My breath caught.
"What is it?" I whispered.
She looked past me — not at the school, not at the students leaving, but straight toward the forest. Our forest. And the sadness in her eyes was something I had never seen before.
Not once.
"Let's go," she said quietly. "We can talk there."
We walked without speaking.
The closer we got to the trees, the slower she moved.
Like every step hurt.
We reached our fallen log — the one we always sat on, the one that felt like ours — and sat down. The air smelled like cold earth and leaves, the November wind twisting around us.
I turned toward her.
She still hadn't looked at me.
"Olivia," I said softly, "you're scaring me."
She swallowed hard.
Her hands trembled slightly on her knees.
"I'm moving," she whispered.
My entire body went still.
"Moving?" I echoed, like the word was foreign.
She finally looked at me, and her eyes—usually steady, usually unreadable—were wide and fragile.
"To California," she said. "My dad got a job there. We leave in a month."
It felt like the ground pulled away beneath me. All the air left my lungs in a way that made me dizzy.
"A month?" My voice cracked.
She nodded, jaw clenched. "I didn't know how to tell you."
My chest ached sharply. The trees around us blurred a little.
"You're leaving," I whispered.
"I don't want to," she said quickly, desperately. "If that matters."
Everything inside me trembled. The forest felt colder, quieter, like the world had suddenly tilted.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I asked, not angry — just hurt.
"Because," she said, blinking fast, "I didn't want things to change yet. I wanted us to have normal days. I wanted to pretend nothing was happening."
She ran a hand through her short black hair, voice cracking.
"I didn't want to ruin our good."
My throat tightened painfully. I stared at her, the girl who always looked unbreakable, now looking like she was holding herself together with thin threads.
I reached for her hand.
She flinched — not pulling away, just… overwhelmed — then let my fingers lace through hers.
"Olivia," I whispered, "you're my best friend."
Her breath shook. "I know."
"And you're leaving."
She closed her eyes. "I know."
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Olivia saw, and for the first time since I'd known her, her eyes filled too.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."
The forest was quiet, holding our sadness gently like it understood.
The wind moved through the branches.
A leaf fell at our feet.
And my heart—soft, hopeful, full—cracked just enough to hurt.
But I didn't let go of her hand.
And she didn't let go of mine.