Chapter 4 No.4

The countdown had begun. Three days until the flight to New York. Three days until her new life.

Elizebeth started severing the digital ties.

She went through her social media, methodically untagging herself from old photos with Floyd. She changed her relationship status from the long-forgotten "Engaged" to nothing. A blank space.

She left his family members in her friends list. Deleting them would be too obvious, an act of aggression. She preferred a slow, quiet fade into obscurity.

The next morning, a message popped up on her personal phone. It was from Jaylah.

A picture.

It showed her hand, a massive diamond ring on her finger, resting on top of Floyd's hand. The background was the rumpled sheets of a bed.

The caption was simple: Woke up like this. So blessed. <3

Elizebeth stared at the image, her thumb hovering over the screen. In her past life, a photo like this would have sent her into a spiral of tears and frantic calls he would never answer.

Now, she felt a distant, clinical numbness.

She typed back a single word.

Congratulations.

She then blocked Jaylah's number. A small act of rebellion. A tiny reclamation of her peace.

That afternoon, she ran into one of Floyd's aunts in the city. The woman, oblivious, grabbed her hands.

"Elizebeth, dear! You're glowing. I always knew you and Floyd were meant to be. He's a lucky man."

The words were like ghosts from an alternate reality.

Elizebeth gently pulled her hands away. "You've misunderstood, Mrs. Meyers. Floyd is engaged to Jaylah Ryan. Their party is on Saturday."

The aunt's face fell, confusion clouding her features. "Oh. Oh, I see. I'm so sorry, dear, I had no idea..."

"It's alright," Elizebeth said, her voice devoid of emotion. The core of his cruelty wasn't just leaving her; it was making her believe in a future and then setting it on fire.

She excused herself and walked away, leaving the woman sputtering apologies in her wake.

That night, she dreamed.

She was back in the hospital. Floyd was still in his coma, pale and still. She was holding his hand, singing softly to him, the same lullaby her mother used to sing to her.

In the dream, he opened his eyes. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile. "I heard you, Elizebeth," he whispered. "You brought me back."

She woke up with tears on her cheeks.

The warmth of the dream evaporated in the cold morning air, leaving a bitter residue. It was a dream of a man who never existed. The real man had woken up and systematically dismantled her, piece by piece.

The dream wasn't a longing for the past. It was a final, painful reminder of what she had lost, and why she could never, ever go back.

She spent the rest of the day packing.

She sorted through her belongings, dividing them into two piles: things to take, and things to leave behind.

The pile to take was small. Her clothes. Her art supplies. Her laptop.

The pile to leave behind was enormous. Gifts from Floyd. Books they had read together. Mementos from trips they had taken. The accumulated debris of a shared life.

She was bagging up a stack of old art magazines when Floyd appeared at her door.

He looked at the boxes, the half-empty room. A frown creased his forehead.

"What's all this?"

"Just some spring cleaning," she lied smoothly.

He picked up a small, chipped ceramic bird from the 'leave' pile. She had bought it at a street market on their first anniversary.

"You're throwing this out?" he asked, his voice tight.

"It's just an old thing," she said, not looking at him. "It's broken."

He stared at the bird in his hand, then at her. "It doesn't matter if it's broken. I gave it to you."

His words hung in the air. He wasn't seeing a memory; he was seeing a possession being discarded. An asset written off. It wasn't about the bird. It was about his choice, his taste, being rejected.

"I don't want it anymore," she said simply.

He looked at her, his eyes dark and searching, as if trying to find the adoring girl who used to hang on his every word.

She wasn't there.

He placed the bird back on the pile, his movements stiff.

"The party is tomorrow night," he said, changing the subject. "Jaylah has a dress for you to wear."

He didn't ask if she was coming. He commanded it.

"I'll be there," she said.

It would be her final performance. Her farewell to this house, to this life, to him. And he would never even see it coming.