Leaving for the West Coast

I'm going to try to find you because we just had an argument and you're leaving for the West Coast tomorrow for the summer and I want to say goodbye. You won't return any of my calls because what I said upset you, that our priorities don't align, won't align, will never align. I'm going to drive to your house and try to find you because you bought six beers and drank two of them by yourself while you were packing and hung up the phone. I'll arrive at your house to find that maybe I'm too late because all of the lights are off and your flight leaves at 8 AM tomorrow. I'm going to get a call from my housemate because all of the doors are open and nobody's home, but you. You took a taxi to my house after you did the majority of your packing and I come back to see you sitting on the stairs looking sad, scared, and defeated. We both know what neither of us can say out loud; that it's over, it's been over for a long time now, but we don't speak of this. We apologize, and I lean on your shoulder.