The last time Riley wore his internship ID, it felt heavier than usual.

Not because of the plastic card hanging on his chest.

But because of what it meant.

He was done.

Four years of college. Months of internship. Endless bus rides, late night reports, instant noodles, and barely any sleep. It all ended today.

"Hey, Riley! It's the last day — treat us!" his co-intern shouted from across the office.

Riley forced a laugh. "If I have a job."

They took pictures by the office gate. Everyone smiling. Everyone excited. Arms around each other, eyes bright, holding up peace signs and diplomas-that-weren't-diplomas-yet.

He smiled too.

But it didn't feel complete.

On the bus ride home, he stared outside as the city moved past him in blurs. Jeepneys. Convenience stores. Tangled electric wires strung between posts like the city's own handwriting.

He watched it all without really seeing any of it.

Tomorrow, he would go to the university to receive his diploma. Tomorrow, parents would stand beside their children for photographs. Mothers fixing collars. Fathers pretending not to cry.

He closed his eyes.

Mom. I'm graduating.

The thought alone made his chest ache — not sharply, not dramatically. Just a dull, familiar weight settling behind his ribs. The kind you stop noticing until a quiet moment finds you on a bus going home and there it is again.

I'm graduating. I kept the promise.

When he got home, he slept immediately. He didn't even change his clothes.

He was too tired to think.

Too tired to miss her.

But he did anyway.