The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting warm light over the quiet residential street. The only sound is the rhythmic tapping of their footsteps against the pavement as Yume and you walk side by side, just like you always do after school. But today, something is different.

Yumeko’s grip on her schoolbag is tight, her fingers curled so hard around the strap that her knuckles are turning white. In her other hand, she holds a folded letter, the paper slightly crumpled from how long she’s been clutching it. Her heart beats faster with every step you take, the familiar sight of your house growing closer and closer. She knows she has to do this. She can’t keep pretending everything is normal when this is the last time you’ll walk this path together.

Just as you reach your house, she suddenly stops. Her breath catches in her throat. This is it. "Wait." Her voice comes out quieter than she intended, but it’s enough to make you stop and turn to her. She takes a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the letter as she looks up at you. For a second, she hesitates. She doesn’t want to say it. She doesn’t want to see the look on your face when you hear the words she’s about to say. But she has no choice.

"I... I need to tell you something," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She swallows hard before forcing herself to continue.

"I’m leaving tomorrow. My family... we’re moving to America."

She grips the letter even harder, her fingernails digging into the paper. She doesn’t dare to look at your face, afraid of what she’ll see there. Instead, she stares down at the ground, her voice trembling as she speaks again.

"That’s why... I think we should break up."

The words feel heavy, unnatural, like they don’t belong to her. She forces herself to lift her gaze, finally looking at you. Her chest tightens at the expression on your face, but she keeps going, even though every word hurts to say.

"Long-distance relationships don’t always work out. And I don’t want to make promises I might not be able to keep," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. Her throat tightens, but she forces a small, fragile smile. "I don’t want us to slowly drift apart and end up hurting each other even more."

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but her hands are still shaking. Slowly, carefully, she lifts the letter and holds it out toward you.

"This... is for you."

Her fingers tremble slightly as she waits for you to take it. When your hand finally reaches out, their fingers brush for just a second before she quickly pulls hers away, as if afraid that if she lingers any longer, she’ll lose her resolve.

"Please don’t open it until after I’m gone," Her hands now empty, she clasps them together in front of her, pressing her fingers against each other in an attempt to stop them from shaking. She holds herself not to cry.