The streetlight outside Elia's window flickered every night at exactly 11:17 p.m.
She knew because that was when she stopped pretending to do homework and started staring at the cracked glass, waiting. The light would buzz, dim, flare too bright, then settle into a sickly yellow glow—like it couldn't decide whether to stay alive.
That's when Rowan usually appeared.
He leaned against the lamppost like he belonged to the shadows more than the light, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets. He never waved. Never smiled. He just waited, like he knew she'd come.
Tonight, Elia hesitated.
Her phone buzzed on her desk.
ROWAN: You okay?
She swallowed and typed back.
ELIA: Yeah. Just tired.
That wasn't a lie. She was tired of whispers at school. Tired of teachers watching Rowan like he might explode. Tired of pretending she didn't care that everyone said he was trouble.
She slipped on her jacket and climbed out the window anyway.
The air outside was cold and smelled like rain and rust. Rowan straightened when he saw her, his dark eyes catching the light for a second before dropping away.
"You didn't have to come," he said.
"I wanted to," she replied. That part was definitely true.
They walked without touching, sneakers scuffing the empty sidewalk. The town looked different at night—quieter, like it was holding its breath. Storefronts stared back at them with dark, blind windows.
"People were talking today," Elia said softly.
Rowan laughed, but it sounded hollow. "They always are."
"They said you're leaving."
He stopped walking.
The streetlight flickered again.
"Are you?" she asked.
Rowan ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Tomorrow night."
Her chest tightened. "You didn't tell me."
"I didn't know how."
Silence pressed in around them, thick and heavy. Elia kicked a pebble into the gutter and watched it disappear into the darkness.
"Is it because of what happened?" she asked.
Rowan's jaw clenched. "Partly."
Everyone knew about the fire at the abandoned factory. How Rowan had been there. How the police asked questions and never liked his answers. They never found proof—but they never really let it go either.
"I know you didn't do it," Elia said.
He finally looked at her then. Really looked. "You don't know that."
"I know you," she said. "That's enough."
Something in his expression cracked.
They ended up at the old bus stop by the edge of town. The bench was cold, paint peeling, the schedule so faded it might as well have been blank.
Rowan sat down. Elia sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching.
"If I stay," he said quietly, "I'll ruin you."
She turned to him. "You don't get to decide that."
"My life's a mess."
"So is mine," she snapped. Then, softer: "Just… in a quieter way."
The streetlight buzzed. Flicker. Dim.
Rowan exhaled. "I don't want you to wait for me."
"I won't," she said. "I just don't want to forget you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin silver chain. At the end hung a tiny charm shaped like a broken star.
"I found this after the fire," he said. "Thought it looked like how things feel sometimes."
He placed it in her palm. His fingers brushed her skin, and the contact sent a shiver through her whole body.
"I'll keep it," she whispered.
They stood there, too close, hearts loud in the quiet night.
Rowan leaned in first.
The kiss was soft, uncertain, and tasted like rain and goodbye. It wasn't dramatic or perfect—but it was real. When they pulled apart, Elia's eyes burned.
"Promise me something," she said.
"What?"
"Don't disappear completely."
He nodded. "And you—promise you'll live a life bigger than this town."
She smiled sadly. "I'll try."
The streetlight flared bright, then went out completely.
When Elia looked up again, Rowan was already walking away, his figure swallowed by the dark.
She stood there long after he was gone, fingers curled around the broken star, heart aching—but still beating.
The light never flickered again.