The night sky had never looked that alive before. It wasn't just stars anymore — it was a map of all the things Lucas and I hadn't said out loud yet. The moon hung low and golden, painting the river in shimmering silver streaks, and the air smelled like rain that had changed its mind. Everything about that night felt infinite, even though somewhere deep inside, I knew it wasn't.
It was a Friday evening, the week before he was supposed to leave. The word "goodbye" had started circling between us like a restless bird, too heavy to land. I had spent all day pretending I was fine — laughing with friends, running errands for my mother, smiling at customers at the shop — but my chest felt like a storm cloud about to burst.
When the sun sank, Lucas sent a single text: Meet me by the flame tree.
No punctuation. No explanation. Just his name glowing on my screen.
I ran.
The town was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. I could hear the distant hum of crickets, the creak of wooden signs in the night breeze. When I reached the tree, he was already there — sitting cross-legged on the grass, a lantern beside him, and that half-smile that always seemed to say, I was waiting for you.
"You came," he said softly.
"Of course I did," I replied, trying to sound casual, but my heart betrayed me with its wild rhythm.
He patted the ground beside him, and I sat down, close enough to feel his warmth. We didn't speak for a while. The silence between us was thick, complete with everything we were both too scared to say.
"I can't believe you're leaving," I finally whispered.
"I can't either," he admitted. "Feels like I just got here."
He leaned back, looking up at the sky. "When I was a kid, my mom told me that every person has a star that mirrors them. When you're lost, you have to look up and find the one that shines the same way you feel."
I smiled faintly. "And which one is yours?"
He pointed to a faint glimmer above the flame tree. "That one. See it?"
I followed his gaze but shook my head. "It's too far."
"Exactly," he said. "Always far, but still there."
Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten.
Then he turned to me. "What about you? Which one's yours?"
I looked at him, not the sky. "I think I've already found mine."
He stared for a long time, and when he smiled, it wasn't playful this time. It was the kind of smile that comes from somewhere deeper — the place between love and surrender.
We talked about everything that night — the future, our dreams, the people we wanted to become. He told me he wanted to study engineering, to build things that lasted. I told him I wanted to write stories that healed people, even if they didn't know they were broken.
"You already do that," he said. "You heal people just by being kind."
"Kindness doesn't fix everything," I murmured.
"No," he said, "but it makes the world softer while it breaks."
That line would live with me for years.
We lay on our backs, the grass cool beneath us, our shoulders brushing. Now and then, I'd steal a glance at him — the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the way his chest rose and fell in rhythm with the night. He caught me once and grinned.
"What?" he teased.
"Just memorizing the view," I said, pretending to sound careless.
"Well, take a good look," he said with a playful smirk. "I won't always be this handsome."
I laughed, the kind of laugh that's half joy, half ache. "You're ridiculous."
He turned on his side, resting his head on his arm. "And you love it."
"Maybe a little," I said, smiling into the darkness.
We fell quiet again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The kind of silence that sits between two people who've run out of words but not out of feelings.
Then he said, "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"No matter where we end up — different cities, different lives — promise you won't forget me."
I swallowed hard. "That's an unfair promise."
"Why?"
"Because forgetting you would be like forgetting how to breathe."
His face softened. "Then promise to keep breathing. That'll be enough."
The tears came before I could stop them. He reached out, gently wiping one away with his thumb. "Hey," he said, voice barely a whisper, "you can't cry. It's against the rules."
"Rules?" I sniffled. "You made rules for heartbreak now?"
"Only one," he said, his tone half-serious. "If you cry, I have to make you laugh again."
And then he did — he started telling the worst jokes I'd ever heard. Something about mango seeds and runaway goats and the neighbor's broken radio: I laughed through my tears, ugly, hiccuping laughter that made my cheeks hurt. He laughed too, not because the jokes were funny, but because the sound of my laughter made him forget the world for a second.
When we finally caught our breath, he leaned closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face.
"If we ever get lost," he said softly, "look for the flame tree. Or the stars. Or me."
I wanted to tell him that I'd look for all three, but my voice refused to come out. So instead, I took his hand, pressed it against my heart, and whispered, "You'll always know where to find me."
He closed his eyes, nodded once, and kissed the back of my hand like it was a vow.
We stayed until the lantern burned out. The darkness wrapped around us like a blanket, and for a while, we just listened — to the crickets, to our breathing, to the universe pretending to stand still.
When it was finally time to go, we didn't say goodbye. We just stood there, forehead to forehead, our tears mixing with laughter as we tried to hold onto something already slipping away.
"See you in the stars," he said.
"See you in the stories," I replied.
He smiled — that quiet, knowing smile — and walked away, each step echoing in my chest long after he was gone.
That night, I didn't sleep. I lay awake replaying every word, every laugh, every moment of that starlit promise. The flame tree outside my window glowed faintly in the moonlight, and I swore I could still feel his hand in mine.
It was the kind of night you don't survive untouched — the kind that teaches you love isn't about holding on; it's about being changed.
Lucas gave me laughter that would echo through all my heartbreaks, hope that would outlive the distance, and a promise that even the stars couldn't forget.
That night, we didn't need forever.
We already had everything.