The Last Summer

They'd promised, at twelve years old with sticky fingers and sunburned shoulders, that they'd be friends forever. Now, at eighteen, "forever" had an expiration date: August 31st, the day they'd scatter across the country to different schools, different lives, different futures. Jake, Maya, Alex, and Sofia sat on the dock where they'd spent countless summer evenings, their feet dangling in the lake that had been the backdrop to their entire friendship. The water was the same, but everything else had changed. "We should make a pact," Sofia said, breaking the comfortable silence. "One last adventure before we leave." "Like what?" Alex asked, always the practical one. "Something we'll never forget," Maya added. "Something that's just ours." They brainstormed late into the night: Road trip to the coast. Camping in the mountains. Breaking into the old abandoned mill. Ideas flew fast and wild, each more impossible than the last. Finally, Jake said, "What if we each plan one perfect day? One day that captures who we are, what we love. And we all do it together." They agreed, shaking on it like they had at twelve, their handshake ritual unchanged by years and growth and all the things that had shifted beneath them. Sofia went first. She planned a day of art—visiting galleries in the city, sketching in the park, painting each other's portraits in her garage studio. They were terrible at painting, all of them except Sofia, but they laughed until their sides hurt at Alex's attempt to capture Maya's nose, at Jake's portrait that made Sofia look like an alien. But when the day ended and Sofia showed them what she'd really painted—not silly portraits but a mural of the four of them at different ages, from gap-toothed kids to who they were now—everyone went quiet. "This is how I see us," Sofia said softly. "Not frozen in time, but growing together, even as we change." Maya's day was about food. She took them to every restaurant in town that held a memory: the diner where they'd celebrated Jake's first baseball win, the ice cream shop where Alex had had their first date (which ended disastrously), the food truck where they'd spent their allowances every Friday in middle school. At each stop, Maya told the story, preserving it, making them remember together. By the end of the day, they were stuffed and nostalgic, holding hands under the table at the last restaurant, trying not to cry into their dessert. "I needed us to remember," Maya explained. "Because I'm terrified we'll forget. That I'll forget what Alex's laugh sounds like when it's real, not polite. That I'll forget the way Jake quotes movies at the worst possible moments. That I'll forget why Sofia and I became friends in the first place." "I threw up on your shoes," Sofia reminded her. "Best day of my life," Maya said, and meant it. Alex's day was the hardest. They took everyone to places that had shaped them: the library where they'd discovered who they were, the park where they'd come out to their parents (with the other three hiding in the bushes for moral support), the bridge where they'd almost jumped last year before Jake had talked them down. "I need you to know," Alex said, standing on that bridge again, this time safe, surrounded by love, "that you saved my life. Maybe not all at once, maybe not even on purpose. But you did. Every time I wanted to give up, I'd think about letting you down, and I couldn't do it." They were all crying now, hugging Alex, promising things they hoped they could keep: Always be here. Always answer the phone. Always come back. Jake's day arrived last, and it was the simplest: back to the lake, to this dock, to the beginning. He brought a time capsule—an old metal box. "Write a letter," he instructed. "To who you are now. Tell them what you want to remember, what you're afraid of forgetting, what you hope for." They wrote separately, privately, the only sound the scratch of pens and the lap of water against the dock. When they finished, Jake sealed the box. "We open it in ten years. August 31st, 2033. Right here. No matter where we are, what we're doing, who we've become—we come back. We read these. We remember." "What if we've changed too much?" Sofia asked, voicing the fear they all carried. "What if we don't fit together anymore?" "Then we figure out a new way to fit," Jake said. "That's what friendship is, right? It's not about staying the same. It's about choosing each other even when everything changes." They buried the time capsule under the dock, marking the spot with four stones they'd painted—one for each of them. The final days of August passed too quickly. They tried to stretch time, staying up all night, living in the moments between moments, as if awareness alone could slow the clock. On August 30th, they had one last sleepover in Maya's backyard, in the same tent they'd used as kids, though now they barely fit, all long limbs and crowded space. "I'm scared," Maya whispered in the dark. "Me too," Alex admitted. "What if we grow apart?" Sofia asked. "What if we become different people and don't know how to talk to each other anymore?" "Then we learn," Jake said. "We figure it out. We don't give up." "Promise?" Sofia asked. "Promise," they said together, fingers intertwined, a knot of hands and hope in the darkness. August 31st arrived with cruel punctuality. Jake's parents were loading his car at dawn—he had the farthest drive. Maya's flight left at noon. Alex's family was driving out after lunch. Sofia didn't leave until the next day, and she already knew it would be the longest night of her life. They gathered one last time at the dock. No one knew what to say. Every goodbye felt inadequate, every hug too short, every promise too fragile against the reality of distance and time. "This isn't goodbye," Jake said finally. "This is see you later. This is until next time. This is—" "The end of a chapter," Maya finished. "Not the end of the story." They stood in a circle, arms around each other, heads pressed together, trying to memorize the moment: the way Sofia smelled like paint and coconut shampoo, the steadiness of Alex's breathing, the strength in Maya's arms, Jake's familiar cologne. "I love you," Alex said. "All of you. So much." "I love you too," Sofia whispered. "Love you," Maya added. "Love you guys," Jake said, his voice breaking. They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, each step away feeling like tearing. Years later, they would look back on that summer and understand it differently. At eighteen, it felt like an ending. But really, it was a foundation. They were building something to return to, creating a shared history strong enough to hold them across distance, time, and change. They did grow apart, in some ways. Jake became more serious, focused on his career. Maya learned to be alone, to not need constant company. Alex found their voice, their strength, their community. Sofia discovered that home was a feeling, not a place. But they also grew back together, in new configurations, with new understanding. They learned that friendship isn't about being the same people you were, but about honoring who you were while embracing who you've become. They texted on ordinary days and called during crises. They visited when they could and forgave each other when they couldn't. They showed up for graduations and weddings, for heartbreaks and triumphs, for the big moments and the small ones. And on August 31st, 2033, they all came back. They met at the dock, older now, changed in a thousand ways. Different hair, different clothes, different lives trailing behind them like shadows. But when they saw each other, when they smiled, it was like no time had passed at all. They dug up the time capsule and read their eighteen-year-old selves' words, laughing at their naivety, crying at their hope, marveling at what they'd worried about versus what actually happened. "We made it," Maya said, looking around at these people who had shaped her entire life. "We did," Alex agreed. "Not unchanged," Sofia noted. "But unchanged in the ways that matter," Jake finished. They stayed all night, talking until sunrise, falling back into their old rhythms while acknowledging their new realities. They were different people now—they lived in different cities, had different partners, different jobs, different dreams than they'd had at eighteen. But the core of it, the heart of their friendship, was intact. Stronger, even, for having survived the distance and the change. "Same time in ten years?" Jake asked as the sun rose. "Same time in ten years," they agreed. And they knew, with a certainty they hadn't had at eighteen, that they would be. Because some friendships don't just survive change—they're built on it, strengthened by it, made more precious by the understanding that choosing each other, again and again across the years, is the real promise. The lake was the same. But they were different. And that was exactly as it should be.