Callum stopped coming around as much.
At first, it was subtle.
He didn't sleep over anymore. Said he was "busy getting ready for college," or "working extra hours," or just "tired." And maybe those things were true. But that didn't explain how his replies got shorter, how his eyes never lingered on me the way they used to, or how he didn't reach for my hand, not even by accident.
I told myself I imagined it. That things were still fine.
But deep down, I knew.
He was pulling away.
From me.
From this house.
From everything we were trying so hard not to name.
The night before he left for college, I heard his voice in the kitchen with Kaden. I crept halfway down the stairs, staying hidden behind the railing like I was ten years old again, listening to secrets I wasn't supposed to hear.
quietly:
"She deserves better than someone who's this messed up."
And that was it.
The whole reason, folded into a single, bleeding sentence.
The next morning, he hugged my mom. Clapped Kaden on the back. Said goodbye like he hadn't ripped something out of me in the dark.
When he turned to me, it was like we were strangers again.
"Take care of yourself, Cara," he said gently.
I tried to smile. Tried to pretend I wasn't memorizing the way he looked with the sun hitting his hair just right, or the faint scar on his lip, or the sadness in his eyes that I hadn't put there but felt responsible for anyway.
"You too, Cal," I said, voice even.
He didn't touch me. Didn't hug me. Just gave me one last look that said everything and nothing at once.
Then he was gone.
And a week later, Kaden was too.
Our house felt like a ghost town. Quiet in all the wrong ways. I kept catching myself reaching for my phone, typing out texts I never sent. I scrolled back through old photos, wondering when exactly everything had started to change. When Callum stopped looking at me like I was the only person in the room, and started pretending he never had.
I didn't cry.
Not at first.
Not until a Friday night two weeks later, when I opened the fridge and realized no one had raided it in days. No one had left muddy footprints by the back door. No one had crashed on the couch with a blanket half-falling off.
And then I did cry.
Because they were both gone.
And I was still here.
Still fourteen.
Still trying to figure out how to let go of someone who never really said goodbye.