The train does not wait for closure.
It pulls out of Willowbrook like it always has. On time. Indifferent. Carrying us forward whether we are ready or not.
Josh drops into the seat across from me, stretching his legs out, already too comfortable for someone who just blew up his entire life plan.
"Wow," he says, looking around. "This is it. The dramatic exit. No tears. No slow motion waving. Disappointing."
"You wanted a montage?" I ask.
"Kind of," he admits. "At least a sad piano track."
Outside the window, the town thins. Familiar houses give way to open road, then clusters of buildings I do not recognize. The sky is pale, undecided, like it has not made up its mind about the day yet.
I keep waiting for the ache. The nostalgia. The sudden urge to press my face to the glass and mourn everything I am leaving behind.
It does not come.
I do not feel brave. Or free.
Just mobile.
Josh pulls out a notebook, flipping it open with the casual reverence of someone who already knows he belongs to the page. "I had this idea," he says. "Mystery. Small town. Everyone lies. Obviously."
"Obviously."
"There is a dead body in the first chapter."
I snort. "Of course there is."
"People love a corpse," he says seriously. "Very inviting."
I glance at him. He looks relaxed, like the ground beneath him has not shifted at all. Maybe it has. Maybe he just learned how to stand on unstable ground earlier than I did. Or maybe writing is how he keeps the doubt from catching him.
"Do you ever think about backup plans?" I ask.
He does not look up. "Nope."
"That was not rhetorical."
He shrugs. "If it fails, it fails. At least it will fail honestly."
The words land somewhere deep, like something quietly agreeing inside me.
The city creeps closer. Buildings rise as if they are being assembled in real time. Steel and glass. Dense. Functional. Unromantic.
Brooklyn does not feel like hope.
It feels like structure. Schedules. Rent. Work that expects something from me. A place where staying still would look suspicious.
I am not going back to the city to find myself. I did that already. Lost myself there too.
I am going because staying would have killed me slowly. Politely. With coffee and quiet rooms.
Josh looks up from his notebook. "You are thinking too loudly."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. Your face does that thing. Like you are arguing with a ghost."
I huff a laugh. "You always say comforting things."
"I am versatile," he says. "Trauma with a side of humor."
The train rattles forward. No one announces this as a turning point. No one applauds our bravery or our recklessness. The world just keeps moving.
And somehow, so do we.
I lean back in my seat, watching the skyline sharpen into focus.
Life does not pause for meaning.
It just asks if you are coming or not.
And this time, I am.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The apartment smells like dust and fresh paint and someone else's cooking drifting up from somewhere below us.
It is smaller than the pictures. Everything is smaller than the pictures. The walls are too white, the ceiling too low, the windows narrow, like they are trying not to see too much of the city at once.
Boxes are stacked wherever they fit, labeled in Josh's sharp handwriting and my messier one.
Nothing feels settled.
Which somehow feels right.
Josh drops his bag near the couch, kicks off his shoes, and sits on the floor with his notebook. No sigh. No pause. No ceremony.
He just starts writing.
The pen scratches against the paper, steady and familiar, like muscle memory. Like breathing.
I watch him from the doorway, still holding a box I have not decided where to put. There is something grounding about seeing him like this. As if he has already planted something here. As if this place has already been claimed.
"You are not even going to complain?" I ask.
He does not look up. "About what?"
"The floor. The boxes. The couch that looks like it survived a war."
He smirks. "I like it. Builds character."
I snort quietly and finally set the box down. Inside are mismatched mugs, old notebooks, loose papers, and a framed photo I do not remember packing. A folded note slips out, caught between two books.
Grandma's handwriting.
The paper is thin. Soft at the edges. It smells faintly like an old drawer and lavender soap.
I pause.
Not long. Just enough.
Then I place it carefully on the counter and keep unpacking.
Josh hums under his breath as he writes, some tune I do not recognize. The sound fills the room gently, like proof of life. I unpack clothes. Fold them. Stack them into a closet that barely deserves the name.
Breathe.
The silence does not press in. It does not demand anything.
It just exists.
I realize then that growth does not wait for grief to resolve. It does not care if you are ready. It does not ask if your heart is still bruised.
It just starts.
Josh finally looks up. "Hey. Do you think people would read a book where no one gets redeemed?"
"Absolutely," I say. "Some of us are tired of redemption arcs."
He grins and goes back to writing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the city breathe outside the window. Sirens in the distance. Voices passing below. Somewhere nearby, someone is laughing.
Nothing is fixed. Nothing is finished.
But something is alive here.
And for tonight, that is enough.