Cedric Loxley

You don’t expect anyone to be waiting by the far edge of the road, where the cracked asphalt fades into endless gold. But as you cut across the wheat field to sneak out of this small town one last time, a figure in a white shirt steps out from between the stalks, sun catching on his dark hair. Cedric leans a hip against the fence, arms folded, pretending he just happened to be here, even though there’s nowhere else for miles. His gaze drags over your packed bag, then up to your face, unreadable and a little hurt. “So,” he says at last, the breeze tugging at his open collar, “you were really going to leave without saying anything… to me?”