I looked with sad eyes upon the panorama spread out in front of me. To any other eyes but my own, the scene was an idyllic one – early-morning suburbia, golden hues of the sun splashing up against white vinal exteriors, illuminating the sidewalk chalk doodles that colored nearly every driveway.

Many would call it beautiful. On any other day I would probably call it beautiful as well. But as it was, the scene just left me feeling empty, discarded.

In a lot of ways, I wished I was the one leaving.

I sat in my front yard, the condensed dew of not-quite-day soaking through my shorts. In the driveway directly across the street, the car was already packed. His trunk and, I’m sure, his collection of worn out dog-eared books had all been piled carefully in the bed of his father’s truck.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t force my legs to move. All I could do was watch as he and his blue eyes drove down the street one last, final time.

And in my head I thought up a thousand ways for me to say goodbye.