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[COVER]

🎨 __N1__ and __N2__, two teenagers, sitting on the bonnet of a parked car at dusk on a hill overlooking their town's lights, sharing earphones — one bud each — heads tilted back watching the sky; a warm, cinematic, unhurried image. Open sky at top.

1

Officially, it ended on a Thursday: last exam, 11:32 a.m., pens down. Someone cheered too early and got shushed by an invigilator for the final time in human history. Outside the sports hall the sunlight looked exactly the same as always, which felt wrong. Years should end with weather. Instead there was just __N2__, waiting by the railings like every other Thursday — except this time neither of them had anywhere to be. Not today. Not, technically, ever again.

🎨 Outside a school sports hall on a bright afternoon: students spilling out mid-celebration; __N1__ walking out with a bag over one shoulder toward __N2__, who leans on the railings grinning; discarded revision cards drifting like confetti.

2

They had met — as both of them told it, though never quite the same way — on the first day of Year Seven, over the last free seat on the bus and an argument about whose it was. The argument lasted four stops. The friendship, so far, had lasted seven years. "You stole my seat," was still the standard greeting. "You were slow," was still the standard reply. Some things get truer with repetition.

🎨 Flashback vignette, slightly softer light: two much younger kids on a school bus, mid-standoff over a window seat, both gripping one strap of the same seat-back; around them, the memory rendered warm and a little faded at the edges.

3

The plan for the summer was written on the back of a revision timetable, which felt like justice. It wasn't a bucket list — bucket lists are for people who think in photos. This was, in __N2__'s words, a Do It Properly list: the beach trip, done properly. The all-nighter, done properly. The band from Year Nine, reunited for exactly one song. And at the bottom, in different ink, added later when the other one wasn't looking: figure out how to say it.

🎨 A kitchen table with a flipped-over revision timetable covered in handwriting (not readable), two mugs, one bag of crisps split open flat like a shared plate; two pairs of hands, one adding an item to the bottom of the list.

4

Results day sat in the middle of the summer like a speed bump. They opened the envelopes the way they'd agreed: at the same time, on the count of three, no peeking — the same protocol as every terrifying thing since Year Seven. The numbers were good. Good enough for the two cities, anyway. Two different ones. They'd known for months. It was still the quietest thirty seconds of the whole summer.

🎨 Two teenagers on a low wall outside school, each holding an opened envelope; the moment after reading — both looking not at the letters but at each other, half-smiling; around them other students hugging parents, a blur of celebration they're briefly outside of.

5

The beach trip, done properly, went improperly almost immediately. The train was replaced by a bus, the bus by a slower bus, and the famous chips were closed for refurbishment — a phrase they repeated all afternoon in increasingly outraged accents. The sea was grey and freezing and they went in anyway, screaming, because the sea is not about the sea. On the way back, sunburnt in impossible stripes, __N1__ slept on __N2__'s shoulder for forty minutes and __N2__ didn't move once, out of protocol.

🎨 A windswept grey-gold British beach: two figures mid-shriek, knee-deep in cold surf, jeans rolled up, jackets abandoned on the sand; later framed as a small inset — the bus ride home, one asleep on the other's shoulder, the other very still, watching the window.

6

The all-nighter happened in the garden, in two deckchairs, under a blanket each, on the theory that dawn is only worth seeing if you've paid full price for it. They talked about everything except September: the teachers they'd impersonate forever, the party neither of them mentioned for three years, whether cereal is soup. At 4:51 the sky went the colour of the inside of a shell, and neither of them said anything at all, which was the whole point of staying up.

🎨 A back garden at the blue-grey hour before dawn: two deckchairs side by side, two blanket-wrapped figures with mugs, breath faintly visible; above the rooftops the first shell-pink light arriving; a phone lying face-down in the grass, ignored.

7

The band reunion lasted, as promised, exactly one song — mostly because one song was all anyone remembered how to play. The garage still had the amp with the dodgy cable and the drum kit missing the same cymbal it had been missing since Year Nine. They were gloriously, unforgivably bad. __N2__'s mum filmed it through the kitchen window, laughing, and that video would outlive empires.

🎨 A cluttered garage mid-'concert': one teen on guitar mid-jump, the other attacking a half-complete drum kit, both laughing too hard to be in tune; through the kitchen window behind, a delighted parent filming on a phone; fairy lights strung over paint tins.

8

August got quieter and faster at the same time, the way endings do. There were boxes in both houses now. There was a day they walked the whole town for no reason, narrating it like a documentary — the bus stop where they met, the chip shop of the golden era, the bench that had heard more than any bench should. Neither said the word museum. Both thought it.

🎨 A long walk through familiar streets at golden hour: the two friends pointing at ordinary landmarks like tour guides — a bus stop, a chip shop, a bench — the town glowing warm and slightly elegiac around them; moving boxes visible through one house window.

9

The last item on the list stayed unticked until the last Friday, on the hill, on the car bonnet, one earphone each, the town doing its usual impression of a circuit board coming on for the night. "So," said __N1__, which in their language meant everything. And __N2__, who had rehearsed nothing and understood completely, said: "Yeah. Me too." Some friendships say it exactly like that. The list got its final tick in the dark.

🎨 The hill at night: two silhouettes on the car bonnet against a sea of town lights, sharing earphones; one holding the old folded list and a pen; a small tick being made by torchlight; vast quiet sky above with the first stars.

10

Moving day arrived twice, four days apart, which is the cruel arithmetic of two cities. The first goodbye was in a driveway full of boxes and parents pretending to check the roof rack. The hug said the things the earphones already knew. "Sunday calls," said __N2__. "Obviously," said __N1__. "And you can't use my playlist to impress new people." "I absolutely will." "I know."

🎨 A driveway in morning light: a car loaded to the ceiling, a parent diplomatically adjusting straps; the two friends mid-hug — the real kind, eyes shut; a duvet in a bin bag wedged against the rear window; the street watching.

11

The first Sunday call happened from two rooms that didn't sound like home yet — echoey, box-cornered, posters still in tubes. It lasted three hours and fixed nothing and everything. New names came up, carefully at first — a flatmate, a coursemate, someone from the queue — and the miracle was this: the old friendship didn't flinch. It just moved its chair over and made room.

🎨 Split-screen dusk: two university rooms in different cities, each half-unpacked with posters in tubes and boxes as furniture; each friend sprawled on a bed with a screen glowing, mid-laugh; between the two rooms, the same evening light.

12

Because here is the thing nobody tells you at eighteen: the last summer isn't the end of the story. It's the chapter where the story learns to travel. The bus seat, the grey sea, the one-song band, the 4:51 sky — they don't stay behind. They get packed, weightlessly, into every room either of you will ever unpack a box in. You stole my seat. You were slow. Some things get truer with distance.

🎨 Final image: years-later feel — two mugs on a windowsill in some future kitchen, a train ticket tucked under one; through the window, two adult figures mid-greeting on the street below, one raising a hand, the other already laughing; warm, unsentimental, alive.