✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The gentle buzz of my phone on the nightstand was a whisper in the silent, suffocating darkness of my room. The screen came to life, a stark, digital brightness that felt like a new reality breaking through the old. A message. From an unknown number. My heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, frantic rhythm of fear and anticipation. I opened the message.
It was from him. From Vidyut. But why an unknown number?
"Everything has been arranged for you. Your flight to LA is at 9 am tomorrow."
The words were so simple, so direct, so utterly devoid of emotion, and yet they hit me with the force of a tidal wave. I read the message again, and then again, the words a mantra of my salvation. 9 am tomorrow. My hands, which had so recently been shattered and then painstakingly pieced back together, were trembling with a new kind of energy. It was happening. Finally. The time had come.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped my lips, a breath that felt like the first clean air I had inhaled in a decade. A lifetime. The suffocating weight of this house, the constant, low-level dread that had been my only companion, began to lift. This was it. The escape. The freedom I had been preparing for, fighting for, for so long. It was finally, irrevocably, within my grasp.
I stood up, my feet sinking into the plush carpet, and walked to my closet. It was a monument to the lie I had been living—filled with designer dresses, expensive coats, and shoes I had never truly wanted. I didn't want any of it. I wanted to pack my life. My real life. I grabbed my old backpack from the back of the closet, the one I had used in my college days, worn and scarred with the history of my past. It was a tangible piece of the person I was, the person I had fought to become.
I began to pack. Not the expensive clothes, not the jewelry, not the things that were meant to impress. I packed my medical journals, my textbooks, the small, leather-bound diary that held all my secrets. I packed my worn-out scrubs, the ones that had been my second skin for years, and my comfortable sneakers. I packed the few, precious photos I had of my mother, tucked them carefully in a small envelope, and placed them at the bottom of the bag. This wasn't a vacation. This was a new life. A new beginning. I was not going back to that prison. I was not going back to my abusive father. I was flying away from him.
