I looked at him, for what felt like the last time. His eyes seemed dull, the color of the green foam on the crest of a low wave. The freckles that defined his facial features so clearly seemed to contrast sharply with his palid expression. I wanted so badly to run to him, to take him in my arms. But we both realized that the time for that had passed.
There was no turning back, and long goodbyes only made things harder than they needed to be.
He picked up his pack – his lucky pack, the one with dozens of patches and fraying straps that seemed to bring comfort to him on his countless journies – and walked out the door without uttering a word.
I ran to the window, tears in my eyes, and leaned my head against the cool glass as he packed all of his luggage in the back of the truck. I wanted to run outside, to tell him not to go, to stay. With me.
But I couldn’t, it seemed. I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words that needed to be said, and all I could do was stare as the truck pulled away.