That was what his father told him.
Ethan repeated it to me one night while we sat on the hood of his car.
“He’s serious, Izzy,” he said. “We’re moving to Europe.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I held his hand tightly. “We’ll figure it out.”
He looked at me with something close to fear.
“I’m not giving up on us.”
“Neither am I.”
That promise carried us to the last slow dance at prom.
The lights dimmed. The music softened. He pulled me closer.
“I’ll find you,” he whispered.
“I’ll wait,” I said.
I meant it.
I just didn’t know how much it would cost.
He was gone two weeks later.
No goodbye at the airport. No closure. Just absence.
“I’ll call you,” he had said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I was.
At first, I believed in us.
I wrote letters. Long ones. I told him everything. I checked the mailbox every day.
