"And what if staying here is what makes me happy?"
I shook my head numbly. I wished it could be, but reality told me it wasn't and could never be. I had made a promise. "You won't be. The regret will crush you, Ada and I don't want you to face that ever." I answered solemnly.
"But-" she started.
"I promised you that you'd be with your father. And that's exactly what I'm going to do." It came out fiercer than I'd meant it and I could see her eyes become wet. There was no way I could break this promise to her. This was the only time I had ever had a friend, the only opportunity I'd ever had to be able to make a promise, let alone a promise this big. I would not stop at anything to carry it out.
When Ada had first arrived, she had found the place dull and unattractive, or so she'd said. The only thing that caught her eye was the one thing that didn't fit in - me. There was nothing else for her here. I knew she had to go back, even though it tore me apart to say, least admit it.
"But what about you?" she whispered.
I smiled sadly and stroked her face gently as she sighed heavily. Our foreheads meeting.
"I'll move on."
Of course, I left it there. I didn't go on to say: "I'll move on, like when the children at school realised I was different and stopped talking to me in kindergarten. I'll move on, like I did when my pet dog died and my parents didn't tell me until I asked where he was and they just replied with a snide answer. I'll move on, like I did when I was younger, learning how to fend for myself, to keep out of the way of my parent's insufferable anger. I'll move on, like I did that first time I was hospitalised after my father beat me about the house for playing the piano too loudly and every other time he beat me. I'll move on, like I did when I went to a new school and was simply told to get on with it and then ignored by everyone except the music teacher. I'll move on. Although it will take more effort than before, my life will resume it's old hardships and I will be able to eventually scrape these memories from my horrifically porous mind."
Instead of saying all that, which was running through my mind, I stayed silent.
Instead, I simply leant forward and just kissed her, hoping that would tell her all that, then again, the letter would tell her the same thing when I gave it to her as she got on the plane. I won't allow her to read it until she's seated on the plane.
I try to forget about that and just enjoy our last moments truly alone, only whispering and waiting for her reaction.
This time I say, "I love you." And this time, I mean it.