On the day we died, we cried in the morning. We stayed in bed a little longer, touching each other’s faces with our eyes closed, as if trying to learn them again in the dark. Neither of us said much. Some words, once spoken, make the end impossible to pretend away. Eventually we rose, dressed in our best clothes, and walked to the café where we always get our coffee. The barista greeted us the way she always does, unaware that this was the last morning we would sit by the window. He ordered the same drink he always does, and I pretended to complain about it, the way I always do. Our hands brushed briefly as we reached for the cups, and I felt a quiet warmth I knew I would miss. Outside, the city moved the way it always had. Cars passed. Someone laughed too loudly at another table. The world went on, paying no mind to the ending that belonged only to us. He told me stories I had heard many times before about the summer we spent by the sea about the night we got lost in the rain and laughed until morning. After the coffee we walked slowly through the streets we knew by heart past the bookstore where we once spent an entire rainy afternoon past the park bench where he first told me he loved me. We waited for the sunset, but the clouds kept it hidden, as if the sky had chosen not to witness our last evening. Then the darkness settled and the road before us quietly parted. He took one path, and I took the other. And just like that, we died. Or perhaps I died first, for I stayed behind long enough to see him walk away without ever glancing back. M. | the departures March 2026

On the day we died, we cried in the morning. We stayed in bed a little longer, touching each other’s faces with our eyes closed, as if trying to learn them again in the dark. Neither of us said much. Some words, once spoken, make the end impossible to pretend away. Eventually we rose, dressed in our best clothes, and walked to the café where we always get our coffee. The barista greeted us the way she always does, unaware that this was the last morning we would sit by the window. He ordered the same drink he always does, and I pretended to complain about it, the way I always do. Our hands brushed briefly as we reached for the cups, and I felt a quiet warmth I knew I would miss. Outside, the city moved the way it always had. Cars passed. Someone laughed too loudly at another table. The world went on, paying no mind to the ending that belonged only to us. He told me stories I had heard many times before about the summer we spent by the sea about the night we got lost in the rain and laughed until morning. After the coffee we walked slowly through the streets we knew by heart past the bookstore where we once spent an entire rainy afternoon past the park bench where he first told me he loved me. We waited for the sunset, but the clouds kept it hidden, as if the sky had chosen not to witness our last evening. Then the darkness settled and the road before us quietly parted. He took one path, and I took the other. And just like that, we died. Or perhaps I died first, for I stayed behind long enough to see him walk away without ever glancing back. M. | the departures March 2026

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