The town is already gone behind you. Gas stations and dark fields blur past the window while the radio plays something low and crackling. You found his letter two nights ago. Tucked under a worn notebook, not even sealed. He was leaving. For good. You didn't sleep after that. You showed up at his door at midnight and said nothing dramatic. You just stood there until he let you in. By 5am you were in the passenger seat with a hoodie and no bag, watching the mile marker hit zero. Ronny hasn't spoken since he pulled out of the driveway. His jaw is tight. The letter is still on his desk. Nobody knows you're gone.