The last week of August came quietly, like a breath the town forgot to let go. The cicadas had dulled, the nights turned softer, and the light changed in a way Lila couldn’t quite name. It made everything look temporary, as if the world itself were preparing to pack up and leave.
At the Bennett house, boxes had started to appear—Jake’s college things, her mother’s late-summer cleaning piles, and sketches Lila didn’t remember drawing. The blue truck still came and went, sometimes parked under the oak tree for hours without reason.
That Tuesday afternoon the air felt like the inside of a seashell—hollow, humming, pale. Lila was sitting on the porch steps with a jar of paintbrushes when Noah walked up the drive, sleeves rolled, a tired smile on his face.
“You planning to paint the whole house?”
“Only the parts that annoy me.”
“That’s a lot of house.”
He dropped onto the step beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Jake told me you finally sent in that portfolio,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“That’s good.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure it does.”
“To you maybe.”
“To anyone who’s been watching you draw since you were ten.”
She looked at him, but he was studying the sky. Clouds moved slow and low, thick as smoke. “You really remember that?”
He nodded. “You drew the old water tower. It looked like it could float away.”
They sat in quiet for a while, the kind that felt comfortable and strange at once. Somewhere down the road a lawn mower started, then stopped. The wind shifted; the scent of rain drifted in from the hills.
“You leaving soon?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “End of the week. Got work back in the city.”
“So this is it.”
He smiled faintly. “Don’t make it sound like a funeral.”
“Feels a little like one.”
A drop of rain hit the porch rail, then another. He glanced up. “Guess we’ve got time for one last storm.”
“You and your storms.”
“They make things honest.”
The rain came quicker than expected, slanting through the trees. They ran inside, laughing, water dripping from their hair. The living room smelled of dust and open windows. Lila grabbed a towel from the couch and tossed it to him.
“Here. Don’t soak the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He rubbed his hair dry, grinning. “You always did like bossing me around.”
“Someone had to.”
“Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”
He dropped the towel on the armrest, looking around. “Funny how it feels smaller in here.”
“It’s the same.”
“Maybe we’re bigger.”
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So what happens after this?”
“After summer?”
“After this.”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I should have the right answer for once.”
“You don’t need one,” she said.
“Maybe. But I want one.”
The rain tapped harder against the roof. Outside, thunder rumbled like a faraway train. He looked at her, the same way he always did when he was about to leave and didn’t want to.
They watched the rain blur the windows, streaking the glass with silver. The air smelled like wet wood and old summers. Lila sat on the floor near the window, knees drawn to her chest. Noah paced once, then leaned against the wall beside her.
“You ever think about what you’ll miss?” he asked.
“From here?”
“From anywhere.”
She thought for a moment. “The noise of the crickets. The way the streetlights buzz at night. How everyone waves even when they don’t really know you.”
He nodded. “You’ll miss the people too.”
“Some of them.”
He smiled. “Honest, at least.”
“I don’t lie to you.”
“I know.”
Outside, the sky dimmed until the hills vanished. The world felt small, contained inside that house, the rain drawing its borders. She could hear her heartbeat between the thunder.
Noah slid down the wall, sitting beside her. “When I was gone,” he said, “I kept trying to draw the city the way it looked from my window. But no matter what I did, it never looked alive. Just… empty.”
“You draw?”
“Sometimes. Not like you.”
“You never told me.”
“Didn’t seem important.”
She looked at him. “It is.”
“Maybe it is now.”
They sat in silence. The storm softened, leaving only the steady rhythm of drops along the gutters.
“You think it’ll stop?” she asked.
“Eventually everything does.”
“I hate when you say things like that.”
“True things?”
“Vague things.”
He laughed quietly. “You used to love vague things.”
“I used to love stories where people actually stayed.”
He turned toward her. “So did I.”
The room seemed smaller, or maybe it was just the way the light caught his face. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled before they reached her mouth.
“You’ll do fine, Lila,” he said.
“Doing fine isn’t the same as being okay.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
When the rain finally stopped, twilight had bled into the corners of the room. Noah stood, stretching, looking older in the half-light. “You want to walk for a bit?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
The streets gleamed with puddles that mirrored the orange of the streetlamps. The air was cool, rinsed clean. They walked without speaking, shoes splashing softly. When they reached the bridge at the edge of town, he stopped, resting his hands on the railing.
“You ever think this town’s too small for the people in it?” he said.
“Sometimes. But maybe that’s what keeps it from falling apart.”
He nodded. “Maybe.”
The creek below gurgled, reflecting the thin sliver of moon. For a long time, they just listened. Then Noah said, “When I leave this time, I’m not sure I’ll come back.”
She didn’t look at him. “Then don’t make promises you won’t keep.”
He frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He took a breath. “I mean maybe it’s time for something different. For both of us.”
She wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t. She just nodded, the sound of water filling the space between them. “Different doesn’t mean better.”
“Maybe not. But it means moving.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small folded paper. “You left this in my truck weeks ago.”
She took it. Her sketch of the lake—unfinished, the lines loose and light. “You kept it?”
“I didn’t know why. Now I do.”
“What changed?”
“I started seeing it right.”
He smiled, and in the quiet that followed, she realized he meant her, not the drawing.
The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of pine and rain. He looked at her the way he always did before saying goodbye.
“Don’t forget to keep drawing,” he said.
“Don’t forget to keep coming back.”
He hesitated. “If I don’t—”
She cut him off. “Then I’ll draw you a reason.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Good.”
They walked back slowly, not holding hands, not needing to. The porch light of her house glowed ahead like a beacon. When they reached the steps, he stopped.
“This time,” he said, “I’ll try to stay gone long enough to miss it properly.”
“You won’t.”
He smiled. “You’re probably right.”
He got in the truck, rainwater dripping from the roof as the engine started. The blue light of the dashboard glowed against his face. He waved once before turning onto the road, disappearing into the soft hum of the night.
Lila stood there long after he was gone. The air was still damp, the world washed clean. She went inside, sat by the window, and opened her sketchbook. On a blank page, she began to draw—not the truck, not the sky, not even him. Just the sound of rain on the roof and the empty space it left behind.
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