The morning was too quiet.
Kei lay with his head on Ezra's chest, listening to the slow, uncertain rhythm of his heartbeat. Outside, mist drifted across the hills like spilled milk. It felt like the edge of the world. Maybe it was.
They spoke little. There was nothing left to plan. Nowhere else to go.
Ezra took out his notebook and turned to the final blank page. He wrote slowly, every word chosen like a confession:
When the lilacs fade, so do we.
Not in noise, but in hush.
Not in war, but in the stillness after.
We were not loud boys, but we were in love.
And that, once, was enough.
He didn't show it to Kei. Not yet.
Instead, they walked to the edge of the cliff where the sea smashed below. Kei stood near the edge, hair dancing in the wind.
"I thought it'd feel scarier," he said.
"It is," Ezra replied, "but I'm not afraid with you."
Kei looked at him with something deeper than love—relief, maybe. Or peace.
They sat side by side, watching the horizon dissolve.
That night, they made love for the first and last time.
Slow. Honest. Unashamed.