CHAPTER 135: HOLD ME, THEN LET ME GO

The station wasn’t far.

But it felt like miles.

By the time they reached the platform, the train was already waiting—its engine low, humming like it knew it had a heart to break.

Noel slowed first.

Luca did too.

Neither of them said it out loud, but this—this was the place where the road split.

The point of no return. One step onto that train, and everything would be different.

The station was mostly empty. Just a few early travelers and a station worker announcing something distant over the loudspeaker.

But to Noel, it all blurred. There was only Luca. Just Luca.

Luca kept his hands buried in the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie—Noel’s hoodie—his fingers fiddling with the inside seam like it might hold him together.

"So," he finally said, voice light but cracking, "this is where I pretend to be cool again?"

Noel gave a soft laugh. "You never were."

Luca smirked. "Ouch."

But then the smirk faded.

And something heavier settled into his expression.

He looked at Noel like he was trying to memorize him. Every detail. The curve of his mouth. The fold of his jacket.

The way his hair curled slightly at the ends when it was humid. Like this image had to last him.

Noel swallowed hard.

His voice barely came out. "I don’t wanna go."

Luca looked down. "I know."

A beat.

"I don’t want you to go either," Luca said. "But I also don’t want to be the reason you stay small."

Noel blinked quickly. "You’re not."

Luca glanced up. "Then go be big."

Noel’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for the strap of his bag. He set the suitcase down, turned, and pulled Luca in.

The hug was tight. Not rushed. Not soft.

It was one of those clinging kinds—the kind that said I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know, the kind where both people hold on like letting go might undo something.

Luca wrapped his arms around Noel’s waist and held him close. Eyes shut. Chin on Noel’s shoulder. "Write me," he whispered.

"You hate long texts."

"Write me anyway."

"I will."

Luca nodded into his neck. "And wear that shirt."

"I’ll wear it even when it smells like you."

Luca smiled sadly. "Then I’ll never wash it again."

The final boarding call echoed overhead. Noel flinched at the sound.

"I guess that’s me."

Luca didn’t move.

Neither did Noel.

Until finally... slowly... Noel stepped back.

He picked up his bag. Grabbed the handle of the suitcase.

But just before turning, he looked one last time at Luca—standing there, messy hair, sleeves too long, hoodie too big.

"Luca."

Luca blinked. "Yeah?"

Noel stepped forward and kissed him. One last time.

It wasn’t long.

But it was enough.

When they parted, Noel whispered, "Thank you... for everything."

Luca didn’t answer. His voice wouldn’t let him.

So he just nodded, biting his bottom lip to keep it together.

Noel turned.

Walked up the steps.

Onto the train.

Luca stood on the platform as the doors closed behind him. He didn’t move. Didn’t wave.

Just stared through the glass until the train started to pull away.

And then—only then—he lifted one hand.

Not high.

Just enough.

As if to say, I’ll be here when you find your way back.

The train was long gone.

And Luca still hadn’t moved.

Only when the platform emptied—when it was just the wind and the littered paper cup rolling at his feet—did he finally take a breath.

He turned.

And walked.

The sky had begun to warm, but the world felt colder somehow.

Like the sun had come up without permission. Like it should’ve waited for Noel to stay.

Luca’s sneakers scraped quietly along the pavement.

He pulled the hoodie tighter, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not anymore. It still smelled like them—soap, cologne, the echo of something sweet—but already, it was fading.

But already, it was starting to fade.

He passed the little store on the corner, the one they always stopped at when Noel wants to buy toothpaste or ran out of cereal.

The door was propped open, same as always.

But no one bumped his shoulder with a laugh and said, "Come on, race you to the snacks."

He passed the café too.

The outdoor tables were empty this early, chairs still stacked. But the chalkboard sign was up already.

"Fresh cinnamon rolls today!" it read in loopy, eager handwriting.

Luca stared at it a second too long.

He could almost hear Noel teasing, "Bet you can’t go a full week without ordering one."

And Luca would always say, "Watch me."

And then order two anyway.

Now, he kept walking.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t trust himself to.

The wind picked up, rustling the edges of his sleeves—way too long for him.

He pulled the hoodie tighter around his middle, ducked his chin into the collar.

Still not warm enough.

A group of students passed by, laughing. One shoved another playfully. One of them had the same backpack Noel used to carry.

Luca glanced at it.

Then away.

By the time he reached the dorm, everything inside him felt heavy.

The key clicked in the lock.

The door creaked open.

And silence greeted him.

The kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet—it echoed. It felt like space. Too much of it.

He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him.

His shoes landed in a crooked heap. He didn’t bother straightening them.

The room looked the same. But it wasn’t.

Noel’s side of the bed was made. Neat.

No charging phone.

No crumpled hoodie tossed on the floor.

No scribbled notes pinned to the wall with dumb reminders like "Buy milk!" or "Tell Luca he snores."

Just space.

Luca crossed to the bed and sat slowly.

The mattress shifted like it remembered. He reached for the pillow Noel used to sleep on. Laid his hand on it.

And didn’t move.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead, he lay down gently, still wearing the hoodie, still curled into himself.

Still pretending this wasn’t real.

He stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time. Until the shadows shifted.

Until the light came in sideways. Until the ache in his chest felt familiar.

His lips parted finally. Only one word came out.

Soft. Cracked. Almost voiceless.

"Noel..."

But the room didn’t answer.

Somewhere the train hummed steadily beneath him, a rhythm too smooth to be comforting.

Noel sat by the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, breath leaving a faint blur with every exhale.

He hadn’t moved much since boarding—just enough to slide his bag under the seat and tug the jacket tighter around himself. Luca’s shirt. It still smelled like him.

He kept his eyes on the passing scenery, not really seeing any of it.

Just shapes and motion—blurred trees, lonely signposts, the occasional splash of early sun over dewy rooftops.

The world was moving.

He wasn’t sure he was.

The seat beside him was empty. He hadn’t let anyone take it. Like the world know how he felt.

He just shook his head.

Didn’t say a word.

The ticket in his pocket was folded neatly, as if that could somehow keep everything else from crumpling.

His fingers brushed over it every now and then—like a habit he didn’t know how to quit.

He blinked.

There was still a smudge of sleep at the edge of his vision.

His reflection ghosted in the window—soft eyes, parted lips, that small crease between his brows that Luca always smoothed with a thumb and a kiss.

Luca.

Noel shifted slightly. Looked down at his hands. His fingernails were still a little dirty from packing. He hadn’t even cared.

He swallowed.

He closed his eyes. The ache didn’t come in bursts—it just stayed, quiet and patient, like it had nowhere else to be.

His phone buzzed once in his lap.

He didn’t check it.

Couldn’t.

He knew if he opened it now, and saw the chat thread—the last messages, the photos, the emojis Luca sent when words felt too heavy—he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

So he kept still.

The seat vibrated gently under him as the train curved along another bend.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Just to rest them, he told himself. Just for a little while.

But the image that bloomed behind his lids wasn’t peaceful.

It was Luca.

Standing alone at the station, wearing Noel’s hoodie.

Trying to be okay.

Trying not to look like goodbye hurt as much as it did.

Noel’s jaw tensed.

He turned his face more firmly toward the window, as if the glass could block out the guilt crawling up his spine.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t let himself.

Instead, he whispered under his breath—quiet enough to be mistaken for the hum of the train.

"I’ll come back."

And the train carried him forward, further from the boy he loved.

But not far enough to forget

Some Goodbyes Wear Hoodies