The morning came too fast.
Elara stood in her bedroom surrounded by opened suitcases and folded pieces of a life she was almost done packing away.
The cedar tree was visible from her window — a dark silhouette against the pale light.
She wondered if it would remember her.
The thought made her smile even through the tears.
Downstairs, her dad waited by the door.
“You ready?” he asked softly.
Elara shook her head — then nodded anyway.
No one is ever ready to leave the life that shaped them.
---
Micah was already under the cedar tree when she arrived.
He stood when he saw her — eyes too watchful, smile caught between pride and grief.
They didn’t speak at first.
Elara just placed her suitcase at her feet and stepped into his space.
Micah wrapped his arms around her — tight, protective, aching.
“I don’t want you to go,” he whispered against her hair.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s how I know we’re doing this right.”
They pulled apart slowly.
Micah reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather notebook.
“For you,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“My thoughts,” he admitted. “Everything I never figured out how to say out loud.”
Her hands trembled as she took it.
She offered him something in return — a folded page pulled from her backpack.
“My first accepted poem,” she said. “The one about the cedar tree.”
He unfolded it carefully — as if it were fragile glass.
“I kept picturing you while I wrote it,” she added.
His voice broke.
“I always knew you belonged somewhere bigger than Hollow Creek.”
---
The bus engine rumbled nearby — impatient.
Elara gripped the notebook harder.
Micah touched her face with gentle certainty.
“This isn’t goodbye,” he said firmly.
“It’s see you later,” she corrected.
He nodded — chest tight.
They kissed then — not desperate, but deep — sealing a promise not of forever, but of effort.
When they separated, neither rushed away.
Time stood briefly still beneath the branches that had carried them from strangers to something real.
Finally, she stepped back.
“Don’t forget who you are,” she said.
He smiled softly.
“With you — I finally know.”
She lifted her suitcase and turned toward the bus without looking back — afraid if she did, she wouldn’t have the courage to keep walking.
Micah watched until the bus doors closed.
Watched until the vehicle curved out of sight.
Watched until the cedar tree stood quiet again.
---
That night, Micah returned alone.
He sat beneath the branches, notebook now empty of pages but full of resolve.
He whispered into the dark:
“She chose her future. Now I choose mine.”
He pulled out his phone and searched:
Community college programs near Hollow Creek — counseling pathways.
For the first time, he wasn’t searching for escape.
He searched for purpose.
---
Letters and messages crossed the distance like fragile threads:
From Elara:
Your notebook keeps me brave.
From Micah:
The tree still stands. So do I.
Calls came late nights — voices soft with longing but steady with belief.
They didn’t promise perfection.
They promised presence.
KAMU SEDANG MEMBACA
✨ "When the Light Returns" ✨
Spiritual🌙 PROLOGUE At 17 years old, Elara James believed God lived in the space between her heartbeat and her breath. She felt Him when her mother hummed hymns in the kitchen, when sunlight broke through storm clouds, and when she whispered bedtime prayers...
