Commit

 He pulls me by my hand, making me stand on my wobbly feet. 

"Come with me," he says, tightening his grip on my left hand. Perhaps, to the bystander, that grip was firm. Firmer than comfortable, but that grip anchored me. Reminded me of who I was and who I wanted to be. 

Free.

I want to be free. 

I respond with the same fervor, pulling him towards me and wrapping my arms around his neck, the envelope fluttering from the movement. His encircle my waist, his voice echoing in my ears, "I want you to go with me," he says softly, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I shake my head, tears almost building up in my eyes as I fight my emotions. It was true. I want to go, maybe be with him. His voice calms me, his presence fills me with joy, his words bring me ecstasy, and his touch grounds me: but he was not who I wanted to be. He means captivity.

I want to be free.

"I-" my words begin without tallying with my mind, making him step back and look at me. The metaphorical ship toots its horn behind me, calling for me. 

Last call for boarding. Last call to leave.

"I want to go, but I want my freedom more," I whisper, making him frown.

"Don't I make you free?" he asks softly, his eyes imploring the love inside of me.

"I-" I begin again, sighing as tears choke me, "I can't," I blurt out, clenching my eyes shut.

"Why?" he asks me as I feel his heart shattering into a million palpable pieces. I hold the envelope tighter in my hands. 

"Stanford," I reply, and he gasps, stepping backward.

"California," he continues, making me nod. "You got into Stanford, Bailey," he repeats, a smile on his face. I frown, "California's three-thousand miles away, Adam," I remind him, but he just shakes his head.

"If I can't wait four years to be with you, what kind of a person would I be?" he states nonchalantly, making me laugh.

"I can't ask you to-"

"I ain't listening, Bailey. I'm waiting," he says, sitting on the same bench I was on a minute ago. His grip on my hand slips, making me feel colder than it was. I sit beside him, my arm resting by his, the very aura of him grounding me.

"Can't you?" I ask, and he raises his eyebrows.

"'Can't I' what?"

I stand to my feet, holding his hand, "Can't you come with me instead? You haven't committed yet, and you got into Berkeley. That's thirty miles," I coax.

"NYU, babe," he says, looking downward, "I can't."

"I'm stuck," I confess, chewing on my lower lip. 

"Long-distance could work," he suggests, making me cringe.

"Please. Video calls and occasional meets; you really think we would be able to handle that?" 

"I'll wait, Bailey!" he enunciates.

"I don't deserve that."

"Well, I don't care," he completes, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

"Yeah, go ahead, withdraw from the conversation. I'm not going to Stanford, Adam. I don't want to leave," I decided, scrunching the envelope in my hand, my heart aching with the process.

"You've already committed to Stanford," he says, shutting his phone, "Giving me your mail password was a good thing, too, huh?" 

A congratulations mail pings on my phone, a tear falling on the screen.

"I hate you," I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder.

"I love you, too, B."