The email arrived on a Thursday. Juni didn't open it right away.
Graduation rehearsals had ended early, leaving the campus strangely hollow. Folding chairs lined the hall. Banners waited to be hung. Everything felt like it was holding its breath.
Juni sat on the steps outside, phone heavy in his hand. Elian stood beside him, cap tucked under his arm. "…You don't have to open it now," Elian said gently.
Juni nodded. "I know." But his thumb moved anyway.
He read the first line. Then the second. He closed his eyes—not in fear, but to steady himself.
"…I got in," Juni said softly.
The words didn't rush out. They settled.
Elian stared at him for half a second—then smiled, wide and unguarded.
"You did?"
Juni nodded, breath shaking now. "…They said they liked my portfolio. That it felt honest."
Elian laughed, relief breaking through. "That sounds exactly right."
Juni let out a laugh too—small, disbelieving, full.
They didn't jump up. They didn't shout. Juni sat there for a long moment, phone resting in his palm, feeling the weight of what had changed. "…I thought it would feel louder," he admitted.
Elian shook his head. "I think the important things are usually quiet."
Juni smiled.
The sun was bright the morning of graduation, the air warm and clear. Students gathered in their gowns, laughter bouncing between nerves and nostalgia.
Juni adjusted Elian's collar absently. "You're crooked," he said.
Elian smirked. "Fix it, then."
Their fingers brushed. They didn't pull away.
They walked across the stage when their names were called. Applause rose and fell. Caps flashed in the air. Juni spotted Evelyn and Lorian in the crowd—Evelyn's eyes shining, Lorian standing a little straighter than usual.
When Juni returned to his seat, Elian leaned close. "You okay?" he murmured.
Juni nodded. "…I am." And he meant it.
Later, away from the noise, they stood at the edge of the field. "…We're really doing this," Juni said. "Different schools. Different paths."
Elian nodded. "But still us."
Juni looked at him—really looked. "…You're not scared?"
Elian smiled, soft and steady. "I am," he said. "But not of us."
Juni leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against Elian's.
Not a kiss. Not yet. Just closeness.
That evening, they returned to the bus stop one last time.
Same bench. Same street. Different boys.
"…This place saw a lot," Juni said.
Elian nodded. "It did."
The bus arrived, doors hissing open. They boarded together. Whatever came next—distance, growth, uncertainty—they would meet it the same way they'd met everything else this year.
With honesty. With care. With choice.
And love—quiet, steady, real. Not the kind that ends a story.
The kind that lets it continue.