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.

Lyra shoved the wedding ring that had fallen between the car seats at me, her face twisted with annoyance. "Finley, can you stop being so careless? If you can't even take care of a ring, how are you supposed to take care of our future child?"

The metal glinted dully in her hand as I looked at it—a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. I felt a flicker of surprise, but I kept my expression neutral.

"That's not mine," I said, my voice steady. I lifted my left hand, showing her my own wedding ring snugly on my finger.

I looked at the ring in her hand—it was a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. Calmly, I replied, "That's not mine."

As I spoke, I raised my hand and showed her the wedding ring on my own finger.

For a split second, confusion clouded her eyes. Then, her face morphed into a forced smile as she shoved the ring hastily into her pocket. "Oh, right. A few days ago, I gave someone a ride. Must have slipped out of his pocket," she muttered, her words rushed. "I'll return it to him later."

I watched her, an indifferent mask in place as I noticed the way her hands trembled slightly. She'd always been a poor liar. And yet, there she was, stumbling through an excuse, oblivious to the fact that I knew the truth.

That ring was Jonah's. Our rings had been custom-made, a rare design that wasn't available off the shelf. To think, she had gone as far as replicating my wedding ring for him, as if he could wear it like a twisted mark of loyalty.

I said nothing, picking up my suitcase and moving toward the building. Lyra scrambled after me, her heels clicking on the pavement, her irritation palpable as she reached for my bag again. "Let me carry it for you."

I checked my watch, glancing at the time. "It's already the afternoon; I have time. Let's go to the hospital," I replied, my voice distant. If I was going to cancel, it was best to do it in person.

Lyra's face twisted into a sneer. "Our IVF appointment isn't for another three days and you're eager already? Fine," she huffed. "Let's just get it over with. I have other things to do."

The drive was silent, her grip tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white as she sped through the streets, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her annoyance was practically radiating off her, thickening the air inside the car.

As we walked into the IVF clinic, she took one look at the line and groaned. "Finley, can you try a little harder this time?" she hissed, her tone as sharp as the cold, antiseptic smell of the clinic.

I barely flinched, but the jab hit deeper than I cared to admit. For years, we'd been here, in one clinic after another, hoping for something that seemed to slip through our fingers every time. Her tone made it sound as though the failure was mine, as though the endless cycles were solely on me. She stood with her arms crossed, tapping her fingers impatiently, her face painted with impatience rather than empathy.

"After all these rounds of IVF, maybe the problem isn't me," she continued, voice low, so only I could hear. "The doctor says you need to relax, you know? Your constant sulking isn't helping either of us." Her expression was firm, almost smug, as if she were passing down an indisputable truth.

My gaze lingered on her, taking in the hard line of her jaw, the eyes that seemed to hold nothing but accusation. Lyra had always struggled with polycystic ovarian syndrome. For eight years, I'd tried, pushing myself through rounds of tests, endless injections, cycles of hope and disappointment. In the beginning, I had believed it would all be worth it—each sacrifice, each exhausting attempt to start a family. But now, with the gap between us widening, I felt the last thread of resolve slipping.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, her phone rang. She barely glanced at me before answering, her expression softening instantly.

"Lyra," a smooth, familiar voice floated from the speaker, warm and teasing. "I bought too much cake again and I can't finish it all. Any chance my little princess could come over to help me out?"

A small, secretive smile spread across her lips as she glanced at me, her eyes momentarily cold, before she turned away, as though the sight of me was suddenly unpleasant. She hung up, turning back with a hard, dismissive expression.

"I have something urgent. Let's reschedule this," she said coolly, already fishing out her car keys as if the conversation was over.

She didn't even look at me as she spoke, her tone implying it was a decision made without needing my input. The lack of any hesitation, any courtesy—it was as though she had forgotten I existed the moment Jonah's voice had called her back.

I felt a flash of anger. "Lyra, it'll only take ten minutes. Just get it done and you can leave."

Her face twisted with irritation as she stepped back, crossing her arms. "This was for three days from now. You insisted on coming early," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I don't have time to indulge you!"

With that, she spun on her heel and left. I watched as she vanished through the clinic doors, never looking back.

A bitter laugh escaped me. Canceling the IVF appointment? Fine. I could do that on my own.

I approached the reception desk, feeling oddly calm. "Please cancel the IVF appointment scheduled for three days from now," I told the staff, my voice even. "And withdraw my file."

The nurse's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Are you certain, sir? If we remove your file, all your previous IVF cycles and records will be terminated."

I nodded, feeling an odd lightness in my chest. "Yes. I'm sure."

After I left the clinic, I remembered I'd also reserved a maternity center for Lyra. That needed canceling, too.

Once everything was taken care of, I stepped out into the early evening. The wind felt sharp and cleansing as I walked through the streets. I wandered off until I found a small hot pot restaurant. The warm, savory aroma of broth and spices drifted into the street, inviting in a way that felt almost comforting.

Sitting alone at the table, surrounded by the gentle hum of conversation and the rich aroma of simmering broth, I scrolled through the photos from my Colosseum trip. Each one was a memory preserved in soft hues of ancient stone and sunlight. Carefully, I arranged the shots into a nine-photo collage, each image a piece of a journey I'd taken without her—this time on my own terms. I added a simple caption beneath the post: [As hoped.]

Within minutes, the notifications began. Friends and acquaintances liked and commented, but one name stood out—Jonah. I almost laughed as a fresh notification popped up: Jonah had posted something of his own.

Curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on it. The photo showed Lyra, gazing intently at something out of frame, a serene smile on her lips. His caption read: [My little princess is such a foodie; she just loves the cake at my place. But as long as she's happy, I'll keep buying it for her until she's had enough!]

The comments streamed in, fawning and flirtatious replies piling up. I pressed "like" without hesitation, feeling a strange satisfaction as I set my phone aside and refocused on my meal. Each bite of hot pot seemed to ground me, the spice and warmth filling a quiet void.

Moments later, my phone buzzed violently. I glanced down, frowning when I saw Lyra's name flash on the screen. I ignored it, then a second call and a third. Finally, on the fourth ring, I sighed and answered, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

"Hello, Lyra."

Her voice came through, sharp and indignant. "Finley, did you go to Rome alone?" In the background, I could hear the sound of running water, as though she were in the middle of something—or with someone. "Didn't we agree that we'd go together when I had time? What's the point of going by yourself?"

I could almost see her pout through the phone, the familiar look of exasperation she wore whenever things didn't go her way. She continued, her tone shifting to a forced sweetness, "And don't forget, we agreed that when the baby arrives, we'd go there as a family to take a family portrait..."

Her words hit a nerve and I felt a slow, simmering anger rise. For years, I'd suggested going to Rome, to fulfill my mother's dying wish. But each time, Lyra had pushed it aside with flimsy excuses, empty promises, until finally, she'd stopped pretending altogether. I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully.

"Nothing special," I said flatly. "I just wanted to go, so I went."

Silence hung between us, thick with her unspoken irritation and my quiet resentment. I could tell she wasn't used to hearing such indifference from me.

"If there's nothing else, I'll hang up now," I finally said, my tone devoid of warmth. Before she could respond, I pressed the red button and ended the call. It was like releasing a weight I hadn't known I was carrying.

Later that night, when I finally made it back to our apartment, I could hear voices before I even opened the door—a familiar, careless laugh mingling with Lyra's softer, teasing tone. When I stepped inside, the two figures on the couch froze, turning toward me. The room was filled with the smell of expensive cologne, the cushions indented where they had been leaning close.

"Finley, you're home late," Lyra said, standing up quickly and crossing over to me, a faint edge of impatience under her smile as she took my coat.

My eyes drifted to Jonah, who looked momentarily startled before his usual smug grin returned. He was relaxed, sprawled across the couch as though he owned the place, eyes darting between us with a mild curiosity.

"Why did you bring him back here?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice even.

Jonah looked down, his expression shifting to feigned guilt. "Sorry, Finley. I was in town for work and Lyra mentioned it'd be fine if I stayed over. You don't mind, do you?"

I could feel Lyra's gaze on me, watching closely, gauging my reaction. "If you do mind, Finley, I'll have Jonah stay at a hotel," she added, crossing her arms, the challenge clear in her eyes.

I looked between them, a calm, detached smile forming on my lips. "I don't mind," I said, feeling a strange satisfaction at the shock that flickered across their faces. I turned my gaze back to Jonah, keeping my voice steady. "You two have been childhood friends, inseparable since you were kids. Why would I mind?"

Without a word, I turned and retreated to the study, closing the door firmly behind me. I sank into the leather chair, the faint scent of old books and cedar offering a small comfort. Turning on my laptop, I immersed myself in work.

But the solitude was short-lived. A soft knock broke through my concentration and Lyra's voice filtered through the door, tentative and sweet. "Finley? Are you really not mad?" She hesitated, then knocked again. "Finley?"

Every time before, when she tried to have Jonah stay at our place, we would end up in a huge fight.