When Carl called, my swollen eyes flicked to the time—almost eleven.

The phone buzzed in my hand, fresh tears splashing onto the screen.

Three calls. I didn't pick up.

Surprisingly, the fourth was from Mia.

I was about to shut off my phone when Carl's message popped up:

[Stop messing around. I'm not coming back tonight. Stay safe. Your condition isn't serious, right?]

A bitter laugh slipped out.

I replied: [Not serious at all. Have fun. I'm going to sleep.]

He sent a goodnight emoji. That was it.

When did we become like this?

We were both orphans, clinging to each other, trying to survive. I used to believe we'd get our fairy-tale ending.

Then Mia showed up.

She called herself a friend. But the way she looked at Carl? It was the way I did.

Did he really not see it?

At 1 AM, my screen lit up. A message from Mia.

[Sorry, Yara. My parents insisted Carl and I share a room. Hope you don't mind. Nothing happened, really.]

A photo followed.

Carl, asleep on a makeshift bed beside hers. His lips, though, had a faint trace of lipstick.

Mia always swore she didn't like him. But every move she made screamed otherwise—a clear challenge, a silent claim.

Back in high school, our duo became a trio.

Mia was loud, fearless, slipping into Carl's world like she belonged there. She did everything the guys did.

Carl studied sports. So did she.

And suddenly, he couldn't stop talking about her.

How loyal she was. How she wasn't like other girls.

They got detention together. Skipped class to hit internet cafés. Fought side by side.

Carl never ran out of things to say about her.

I'd ask, careful, hesitant, "Do you like her?"

He'd laugh—loud, dismissive—like I'd just told the dumbest joke.

When he finally stopped, he said, "Mia's just a tomboy. I'd never go for someone like her. The only one I like is—"

He never finished.

Just stared at me, eyes burning, unwavering.

My heart pounded.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

After that, Mia started dressing up.

And once she did—she was stunning.

That radiant smile... impossible to ignore.

I remembered her once telling another girl, casual, smug—

"If I went after Carl, he'd definitely fall for me. I mean, look at me. So much better than that half-blind girl next to him. But I won't rush. I'll let him come to me on his own."

I rented a house by the sea, dragging my suitcase behind me.

The landlord, Mrs. Parker, was a sweet old lady—always chatting, always sharing homemade food. She was over seventy, and like me, wasn't sure what would come first—tomorrow or the unexpected. But she didn't stress about it.

"Live each day as it comes," she'd say.

Her warmth softened the weight in my chest, the suffocating dread ebbing like the tide. I was learning to accept death. Once I was gone, there'd be nothing left to worry about.

Three days passed.

Carl texted. Wouldn't be back anytime soon. Mia's parents adored him, wanted him to stay longer.

And, of course, Mia made sure the whole world knew.

[Finally fulfilled my parents' wish—brought home a boyfriend.]

The photo? Carl, deep in conversation with her parents.

She updated daily.

Carl meeting her relatives.

Carl in matching outfits with her.

Carl inches from her as she tilted toward him, her lips hovering just near his cheek. The angle was perfect, the intimacy obvious.

Carl's smile looked stiff.

Her caption: [Scared you, didn't I, dummy Carl?]

Carl replied: [Being your friend is exhausting. Even comes with acting gigs.]

Mia: [Well, you could always stop pretending. I wouldn't mind making it official, hahaha.]

I shut off my phone.

I wanted to let go. I really did. But this? This still hurt. A slow, crushing ache.

For three years in high school, Carl and I had this... thing. Flirting, never crossing the line, but we both felt it.

Then, on graduation night, he finally said it.

Under a thousand city lights, his eyes shining like stars, he stood there—nervous as hell.

"Y-Yara, I—I w-want to be your boyfriend. And then... one day, your husband. The person closest to you. And you... you'll be mine."

No hesitation. I grabbed the flowers from his hands, too choked up to speak.

Since childhood, I'd counted on him, dreamed of a future with him. And for a while, I thought we had it.

Through my tear-blurred vision, I saw her.

Mia.

She was watching his back, her face full of loss.

I hadn't been wrong. She wanted him too.

A week passed before Carl finally called.

His voice was sharp, irritated. "Where did you go? What are you trying to do? You know I could never like her, and she doesn't like me either. Did you really have to leave over this?

"Just tell me where you are. I'll come get you. We're about to get married—does this even make sense to you?

"Yara, do you have to make sure I have no friends left?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "Let's break up, Carl. There's no need for a wedding."

Then I hung up.

I went to block him—but then, a sharp itch crawled up my throat. A cold dread curled in my stomach.

The next second, blood gushed from my mouth and nose.

The thick scent of iron filled the air.

Cold spread through me, my vision tilting. My breath came in short, ragged gasps as I staggered toward the door.

But before I reached it, my legs buckled.

I crashed to the floor.

Darkness swallowed me whole, the chill sinking deep into my bones.

In my mind, two children ran through an orphanage courtyard.

"Carl, will we always be together?"

"Of course. I'll never leave you."

Somewhere, my phone kept ringing.

The sound grew distant.

I couldn't lift my hand to answer.

My consciousness unraveled.

So this... was death.

***

"Carl, what's wrong?"