woke up new (after) part seven
That weekend, Troy and Gabriella stand face to face and realise they’ve run out of things to say to each other. Gabriella cries, but she looks pretty; she only looks pretty crying if she doesn’t mean it. They hug goodbye, before he climbs back in to his truck and leaves. Their embrace feels stiff, formal. They’re like strangers. Troy doesn’t know how they got like this. They used to share everything, to know each other and here they are, parting as if they barely know each other, like two people who just happened to meet. He’d been willing to change his future for her, to change his whole life for her, and now...
“Goodbye, Gabriella,” he says, finally, the closed truck door between them but the window rolled down.
“Goodbye, Troy.”
He lets her keep the necklace. He isn’t sure if she will. Maybe she’ll put it in a drawer and forget about it, be surprised by its presence when she’s packing up her room when she moves out. Maybe it’ll get lost; it’s such a small thing. It used to be so significant. Now it means so little. It’s a reminder of a couple of summers, a few stolen kisses when their friends weren’t watching, of long nights lying awake and listening.
Driving away feels too much like relief, a weight lifting from his shoulders.
“Goodbye, Gabriella,” he says, finally, the closed truck door between them but the window rolled down.
“Goodbye, Troy.”
He lets her keep the necklace. He isn’t sure if she will. Maybe she’ll put it in a drawer and forget about it, be surprised by its presence when she’s packing up her room when she moves out. Maybe it’ll get lost; it’s such a small thing. It used to be so significant. Now it means so little. It’s a reminder of a couple of summers, a few stolen kisses when their friends weren’t watching, of long nights lying awake and listening.
Driving away feels too much like relief, a weight lifting from his shoulders.