but it kind of is

“It’s not like this is goodbye,” she says, pulling away from me at last. “I’ll be back to visit you and my family and everyone. And hey,” she continues, a chirrup in her voice, “Maybe you can come visit me too.”

“Maybe I can,” I say back, forcing my best smile to match hers. I guess a lifetime of ballet lessons and plastic smiles through bruised tones and sprained ankles and scalp-tearing buns has its positives, because she doesn’t notice anything amiss as she scans the flight arrival screen above our heads. “I’ll still miss you though.”

“Aww,” she says, but her gaze is still stuck skywards. “I’ll miss you too. Promise you’ll text me?”

“I promise-” I begin to say, but then her eyes light up and her phone buzzes at the exact same time, and my heart sinks down into my toes like a paper boat going under.

“That’s me,” she squeals, before scooping me up in one last tight hug and stepping away. “Well, I’ll see ya.”

“See ya,” I murmur, but she’s already gone. Her suitcase wobbles on one wheel, nearly sending the whole pink ordeal crashing down onto the polished airport floors, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are on the security terminal up ahead, and her mind is already aboard the plane.

I watch her until I can’t see her head bobbing through the crowd anymore. Even after she’s gone, swept up by the bustle of passengers on their way to their next great adventure, I strain my eyes in her direction, hoping for just one last glimpse.

She may say it’s not goodbye, and we probably will see one another again, when she comes back to celebrate Thanksgiving or Hanukkah with her family, but I know without a doubt that this is our last real goodbye. That after today, every other goodbye will be a half-hearted echo of the days when we were best friends and platonic soul mates, blotted out by the saturated future she’s left me to chase.