Saying My Final Farewell to Him

When my kidney stone flared up, the pain was unbearable, like someone jamming a white-hot knife into my side. But nothing cut quite as sharply as Lyra's response when I'd begged her to take me to the hospital. Her face, framed by the rolled-up car window, was cold, indifferent. She'd barely looked at me, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as she said, "Take a cab yourself."

Then she sped off, leaving me stranded on the overpass.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the pain had pulled me under three separate times. Each time I came to, the world felt sharper, more hostile, the lights of passing cars blurring into a whirl of indifference. I clung to consciousness just long enough to make it through the ER doors before passing out again.

Lying in the hospital bed, I clutched my phone, watching each call to Lyra ring out only to be rejected immediately. Ten calls, each one falling like a stone into the void. Hours later, as I scrolled through my feed out of numb habit, I found the answer: a post from her childhood friend.

Jonah was shirtless, smirking, with frosting smeared across his abs. The caption read: "My little princess is so mischievous, eating cake off my abs..." And there, unmistakably, was Lyra's hand, dainty and manicured, tracing lines through the frosting.

It felt like another blow, colder, deeper, striking somewhere inside me I didn't know could still hurt. I shut off my phone and lay there in silence, letting the sterile lights of the hospital blur above me.

When I was finally discharged, I didn't tell Lyra. I didn't tell anyone. I bought a ticket to Colosseum and left on a whim, hoping that seven days away might drain the hurt. There was a strange freedom in the silence. No texts, no calls. Just me, wandering through ruins, standing under open skies, relearning what it felt like to be alone.

After ten days, when I returned, her calls came in a flood. Lyra's name flashed on my phone twenty-eight times before I finally answered, calm and composed, still standing in the echo of those quiet, solitary days.

"Finley, where have you been all this time?" she demanded, her voice tight with anger. There was a note of accusation, as though my absence had somehow inconvenienced her.

——

I didn't respond, slipping my phone back into my pocket as I stepped out of the airport into the thick evening rush. I waited there, caught between the bustling travelers and the distant glow of city lights, until finally, Lyra's car pulled up to the curb.

She got out, crossing the sidewalk briskly and reached for my suitcase with a look that was almost mocking. "Disappeared for so many days, but still came back obediently, didn't you?" Her tone was airy, dismissive.

I looked past her, eyes fixed on the street behind her. "Let me get that," she said, opening the passenger door with a smug grin. The thick scent of cologne filled the air, unfamiliar, almost nauseating, overpowering. I never liked wearing cologne.

"I'll sit in the back," I replied coolly, stepping around her to open the rear door myself.

Lyra's smirk faltered just slightly, her eyes narrowing. She seemed to take it as a challenge and I saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the door. Inside the car, I put on my headphones, tuning her out as I stared out the window. The city sped past in blurred lights, a buzzing mix of strangers and empty streets and for a brief moment, I felt like I was drifting above it all.

At a red light, she turned, her voice breaking the song in my ears. "Why are you sitting in the back?"

I barely caught her words. "What?"

"I remember before, you always insisted on sitting in the front," she repeated, with a hint of annoyance.

I thought about it—the way I used to claim that seat, a childish attempt to stake a claim in her life. I'd bought little trinkets to decorate the dashboard, silly stickers and charms, like a teenager in love for the first time. But it hadn't changed anything. Jonah still took that seat whenever he wanted, smug and comfortable, with his easy charm and crooked grin.

I remembered the day I stumbled on the dashcam footage, an accidental discovery that sliced through the last remnants of trust I'd held onto. I'd been in excruciating pain that night, begging her to take me to the hospital, but she had brushed me off, claiming she was busy. Meanwhile, the footage showed her laughing with Jonah, driving them to a concert while he lounged in the passenger seat, one arm draped around her waist.

"Lyra, I haven't seen you in days. I missed you so much," he'd said, his voice rich and affectionate, almost reverent.

Her laugh had been soft, teasing. "I'm driving, don't be naughty."

"Then just pull over."

The car pulled to the side and the video captured it all—their laughter, the sound of unbuckling seatbelts, the intimacy that had filled the car. Later, I found a used condom under the seat, a quiet, undeniable testament to everything I had been trying not to see.

After that, I stopped caring about the front seat.

Lyra's voice broke through my thoughts. "Finley?"

I looked up, shaking myself from the memory. Her eyes were on me, searching.

"Nothing," I said, my voice calm, controlled. "Just realized it was all a little childish, that's all."

The car fell silent again as we pulled up to the apartment complex. I got out, heading to the trunk to retrieve my suitcase, when I heard her calling my name.