Unwritten Promises

There are certain mornings you never forget.

Not because they're loud or chaotic, but because they're too quiet like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something to shift.

That was the kind of morning I left Atlanta.

It was humid and early, with the sun still buried behind stubborn clouds. My duffel bag rested by the door. Mom had already packed my suitcase into the trunk.

I had one last stop to make. One final goodbye I didn't feel ready for.

Joy stood on her porch, barefoot in her hoodie and pajama shorts, like she ran out the second she got my text. She looked like home. No makeup. Hair tied back. Eyes puffy from sleep.

Still beautiful.

Still mine.

"I thought maybe you'd change your mind," she said, halfway between a smile and something else.

I climbed the steps and pulled her into my arms.

"You know I can't. The scholarship's too big."

Her grip tightened on my shirt. "I know. I just wish it wasn't so far. Couldn't you have picked somewhere closer?"

"I looked," I lied.

We both knew I didn't try that hard.

She leaned back and searched my eyes, like she was hoping to find something I wasn't saying.

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"That you'll remember me."

I gave a soft laugh. "How could I not? You're my entire high school story."

"I don't want to be a story, Martins," she said. "I want to be the ending."

That one hit deeper than I expected. She looked away, embarrassed.

"God, I sound clingy."

"No. You sound honest." I took her hand. "And this... what we have... it's real. I love you."

Her eyes flicked up. "Do you?"

I blinked. "Joy... what kind of question is that?"

"The kind you ask when someone you love is leaving for the other side of the country, and you're not going with them."

I didn't know how to answer that. So I held her tighter.

Her body pressed against mine like she was the final piece in a puzzle I didn't want to lose.

"We'll text. Call. Every day," I said, like a promise stitched in breath.

"We won't forget this," she whispered into my chest.

"We'll protect it."

"And we'll stay loyal," I added, almost automatically.

She pulled back and touched my face. "Even if someone else seems easier... promise me you'll still choose us."

"I promise."

Then we kissed. It wasn't just lips meeting lips. It was a slow, aching kind of kiss-the kind that tries to memorize everything. The taste of her lip balm. The faint tremble in her breath. The way her fingers curled behind my neck like she was afraid to let go.

Honk, honk.

Mom's signal from the car.

I kissed Joy again. Quicker this time.

Then slower.

"Write me letters," I murmured.

"You won't answer."

"I will. I'll write poems. Weird ones. No punctuation."

She laughed. "I'll hang them on my wall."

"I'll text you when I land."

Joy stepped back, folding her arms, trying to stay strong. But I saw the tears.

"Don't fall in love with California."

"I won't," I told her.

But I didn't sound as sure as I wanted to.

The airport felt unreal. Announcements droned overhead. Strangers rushed by. Everything smelled like sanitizer and stress.

I was surrounded by people, but I'd never felt more alone.

I pulled out the leather journal Joy gave me last Christmas and flipped to a clean page.

August 12

I don't feel like I'm running away. But I do feel like I'm stepping into something I'm not ready for. Joy thinks we'll make it. Maybe we will. Maybe not. I just hope I don't become someone I won't recognize.

A flight attendant called my group.

I hesitated.

Then zipped the journal shut and boarded.

My seat was by the window. No one beside me.

As the plane rose into the sky, I watched Atlanta shrink beneath the clouds-the roads we used to walk, the bus stop where we danced in the rain, the gas station where Joy made me laugh so hard I cried.

It all looked small from above.

I closed my eyes.

And I dreamed.

But not of Joy.

Of someone else.

She had dark, curly hair and eyes like a storm about to break. She wasn't smiling, but her face felt like a line from a poem I hadn't written yet.

When I woke up, we were landing in California.

Pacific Heights University looked like a movie set. White buildings, open lawns, students on bikes and skateboards. I even saw someone juggling.

My dorm room was small but tidy. My roommate hadn't arrived yet.

I unpacked, took a quick shower, and tried calling Joy.

No answer.

I sent a message: Landed safe. It's beautiful here. Miss you already.

Delivered. No reply.

I told myself she was just asleep. That everything was okay.

But something inside me whispered otherwise.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I wandered past the quad toward the library. It was still open. Students studied under lamplight, laughter soft like wind chimes.

And then I saw her.

The girl from my dream.

Sitting under a tree. Alone. Notebook in hand. Eyes focused. A halo of curls falling around her face.

She wasn't just stunning.

She was... familiar.

Like I'd known her in a past life.

She looked up. Our eyes met.

Just for a second.

And she smiled.

Not a flirt.

Not even a greeting.

Something quieter.

Like she already knew me.

I froze.

My heart raced.

Then she returned to her writing.

But the damage was done.

I walked back to my dorm not knowing her name.

Not knowing her story.

Only one thing was certain:

She was going to matter.

Somehow.

Somewhere.

She'd return.

And Joy still hadn't called back.