I walk down the path, gulping as I do so, at the mere thought of what I am about to do. The soles of my boots scathe the chalky ground lightly, my footprints barely scarring the place I have traced with them on so many occasions. It is as if the memories themselves draw a protective sheath over what will be the cause of their undoing: me.

I lift the brass knocker, taking a sharp intake of air as I do so, debating whether I should do it, mentally preparing myself for what I have to do. I knock one, twice, three times, shivers running down my spine in confusion and sorrow. The door opens, fast, and I have a couple of seconds to regather the thoughts I once had held of what I should say, how I could say it.

As if words and their petty combinations could soften the blow.

Jackson kisses me the moment he sees me, slowly walking backwards so I can enter the house. When we pull away, he whispers: "I missed you."into my hair, and I can feel his heart beating steadily. How am I going to do this? I shut the door, and turn to him, opening my mouth to tell the news but I simply cannot bring myself to say it. He sees the serious expression on my face.

"Are you okay?" He says, concern flooding his face. I try to lie. To say "I'm fine." Normally it comes so easily to me but now, here, to him, I can only cry.

I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to stifle the hideously unsubtle sobs. "Cassidy, what's wrong?" His voice is now thick with worry, and I mentally kick myself for doing this to him. What kind of person am I?

But leaving him is the only way to truly find out.

Once I am sitting beside him on the leather couch, I try to form a sentence. I have to use every fibre within me to hold it together, but I stop myself from the inevitable fragmentation I will later encounter. We had our first kiss on this couch. Not here, I think. Don't cry.

Once I have given up on trying to start the sorrow with the words I cannot say, I simply hand him my expulsion letter. Or rather, my "we feel it would highly benefit you if you chose a career path that solely focuses on your poetic abilities" letter. It was basically my school, kicking me out because I had started a fight. Okay, that's an understatement, I started a high school alternative to World War III, and Jackson was there to witness it. He was actually my right-hand man. In your face, Brooklyn Matthews.

Except Brooklyn Matthews wasn't getting expelled. Neither was Jackson. I was leaving because I was the one with the label. The one with the giant sign protruding from her head reading: bad, misunderstood teenager. Needs help. But for some reason, Jackson didn't see that sign. He saw me. Except, even I don't see that anymore.

He reads the letter, slowly. Normally I would make a dig at him for not reading like I do, i.e: three hundred words per minute. But now, I jut watch in anticipation, trying to forget the words on it, though they burn so alight in the back of my hectic mind, layering stronger each time I have read them. I tried to forget what they said, what they meant, but I have read them too many times for that. When he looks at me, sorrow is not what I see in his eyes, nor disappointment. I am halfway between laughing and crying when I see the hope that illuminates them. How can he be hopeful when the truth is staring him in the face, in black and white?

It is both impressive and heartbreaking, knowing he is still being positive when the situation is unavoidable.

"What's this?" He says weakly, trying to manage a wavering grin. Oh. He thinks maybe it's a joke, a wind up. That maybe the world isn't this cruel, to bring two people together only knowing they'd be torn apart. It is an idealistic, optimistic, notion. But reality is an attention-seeking, insensitive, impudent, urchin that despises happy endings. It hunts them down and rips them to shreds.

"This is goodbye." I reply softly, trying to scrape my emotions back together for him.

The silence that follows this isn't the comfortable type we are accustomed to. It's a deathly silence, crafted from the depths of my impending departure. We are sat, staring into space, when Jackson says: "I'm sorry."
I stare at him, in shock, then stand up.

"What are you sorry for?" I ask. "That I have to go? Or that you don't?"

"I don't know, I guess, because we have to say goodbye so soon...sooner than we have to."

"Have to? Jackson, I do have to. You actually think I would leave if there was any other option?"

"No, I just thought it'd last...longer?"

I sigh. His optimism is irking me in these circumstances. Why can't he just make it easy for me? As if it isn't hard enough already, to leave. Why can't he just let me go?

But if I was in his place, wouldn't I put up a fight? How could I expect him to sit quietly then? But I had to make it easy for him. I had to make him let me go. I had to let him know why.

"No. You thought it would last forever." I say, my voice rising. "But I know nothing good ever does. So do me a favour, Jackson, and don't fight for me. I have to go. Don't hurt yourself trying to make things better. I can't hurt you any more than I already have. We're not going to live in a fairy castle, have a garden of roses, we're not going to have a fairy ending, where you can be the prince and I can be the princess..."

I trail off, losing my voice when Jackson wraps his arms round my waist, stroking my hair.

"Cassidy, if you have to go, then I can't change that." He takes a deep breath, shaking slightly. "But I can come with you?"

There it is. Again with the foolish hopes, childish dreams, the asinine notion that we would live happily ever after.

"It's never going to happen, Jackson!" I say exasperatedly. "This is goodbye. And I'd rather spend it on a farewell than a feeble-minded fantasy that will only lead to the same path everything else does: disappointment."

"You're not a disappointment."

I remain silent, shaking.

"Cassidy, I love you, always remember that," he whispers, and I know that this is his goodbye to me. I will remember it. We make shallow, empty promises. We say we will keep in touch. We say we will visit. We say we will meet again. But one promise I can keep: I will never forget Jackson Roberts, I can't and I won't.

Stories last as long as the lives do, I think. The story starts before Page One. Before the Ball Invitations, before the unwanted answer from a mirror on the wall. They don't end when the prince and princess get married. They carry on, till the end of life itself. There was time before Jackson Roberts, and there will be one after him, the only differentiation between the former and the latter being that I have new memories.

I have memories of my time with him. I will never let go of those. Finding a new path is what I thought would help me discover myself, but now I realise Jackson has already done that. My story does not end here. Neither does Jackson's. Our stories continue, just unravelled from the tightly woven strand they were once comprised of. My life will continue without him, I am sure of it.

"I love you too." I mumble, then kiss him for the last time. When I leave the house, I make my way to the bus that will take me away from here. As I sit, peering out of the window, ready to start the next chapter of my story, I tell myself that Jackson was so much more than a chapter. Our time together was a story in itself. That story ends here. That story is over. But the road is clear. The sky is blue. The sun is shining. This is not

The End.

(A/N) Just thought I'd let you know that the contest I wrote this for was cancelled, but I probably wouldn't have won anyway. If you're wondering, the book is from Contests book where they have been posting weekly contests for people to enter if you are interested.

Thank you for reading this and don't forget to vote and/or comment if you liked it!

~ Sunflower