A Goodbye Never Said

Chapter 12

Aaliyah's POV

I remember the night we left so clearly. My mom was shaking, packing things into our bags with a frantic energy I'd never seen before. She kept glancing out the window, like she was expecting him to appear at any moment.

"It's going to be okay, Aaliyah," she said, but her voice cracked, and I knew she didn't believe it. We moved to Melissa's town, far from Copenhagen, and for a while, it felt like we could breathe again—like my father couldn't reach us here.

Those first few months at my new school, Melissa and I became inseparable. She didn't know why I was really there, but she didn't pry. She just accepted me, and that was enough. It was the first time in a long time that I felt safe, like maybe we could start over.

But then, everything fell apart again.

It was late one evening when I overheard Mom on the phone, her voice shaking with fear. "He's here," she whispered, like saying it louder might make it more real. "I saw him in town. He's looking for us."

My heart dropped. I didn't understand how he'd found us, how he'd even known where to look. But I knew what came next. Mom pulled me aside that night and explained that we couldn't risk being found again—not after all the damage he'd done to her, to us. She wouldn't let him hurt me or my siblings. Not again.

She made the decision right then. We moved apartments, barely a few miles away, but it felt like crossing into a different world. She took us out of school and decided to homeschool us. And then came the hardest part—telling Melissa.

Mom didn't give me a choice. She made me call her, made me lie, made me say we were moving far away, to another city, even though it wasn't true. The whole time, my voice shook, my stomach churning with guilt. Melissa didn't understand. Of course she didn't. How could she? All she knew was that her best friend was suddenly gone.

I tried to hold back tears as I lied through my teeth, telling her that I wouldn't be able to see her anymore, that I wouldn't be coming back to school. She kept asking questions, but I couldn't answer them. All I could do was promise that I'd miss her, even though I didn't deserve to say it.

When I hung up, I felt like I'd shattered something that could never be fixed. And for months, I couldn't stop thinking about her. I missed her so much—her loud laugh, her stubbornness, the way she'd always stand up for me. But I told myself it was better this way. It was safer. At least, that's what I tried to believe.

Until now.

It's been almost a year since I left, and I can't keep running from it anymore. I know I owe her the truth. I need to apologize, to explain why I did what I did, even if she never wants to forgive me. Even if it's too late.

That's why I'm here, standing outside her house, my hands sweating and my heart pounding like a drum. I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell, praying that she'll hear me out. What I don't realize is that Melissa isn't alone inside. Her friends are there too.

Melissa's POV:

.

I take a deep breath as I stand by the sink, scrubbing the plates clean. The laughter from the living room still echoes through the house, and I can't help but smile a little. It's been a while since I've felt this light, like everything isn't so complicated. For once, it's just me, my friends, and our inside jokes.

I hear footsteps behind me, and then Celine's voice cuts through the noise. 'Need a hand with those, chef Melissa?' she asks, leaning against the counter with a smirk.

I roll my eyes playfully. 'Please, the chef does the cooking. The assistant cleans up. Guess who's the assistant?'

Celine holds up her hands, backing away slowly. 'Oh, no, no, I'm no assistant. I'm a guest! It's a well-known rule that guests are here to be pampered, right, Monica?' she calls out, raising her voice.

Monica pokes her head into the kitchen, grinning. 'Right! Plus, I'm still recovering from Melissa's earlier joke attempts. They were so bad, they left a scar.'

I smirk, rolling my eyes again as I rinse off a plate. 'Very funny, Monica. I'll have you know my jokes are top-tier. You're just not sophisticated enough to appreciate them.'

Michael steps in, leaning casually against the fridge, arms crossed. 'I mean, she has a point, Mel. That last joke you tried to crack? It was about as flat as Denmark's highest point.'

Celine snorts. 'Yeah, the one about how Italians make pasta to express their feelings? I thought that was a cooking tip, not a joke.'

I can't help but laugh, flicking some water in Michael's direction. 'Hey, I'm a better chef than comedian. At least my carbonara was top-tier. Admit it, Michael, you'll miss my cooking when you head back to Italy.'

He grins, pretending to look serious. 'Okay, fine, I'll give you that. But just remember, when I'm eating my real Italian pasta back home, I'll probably still think about this meal.'

I shoot him a mock glare as Celine and Monica giggle. 'You better! And next time, bring some real Parmigiano Reggiano instead of making fun of mine.'

As I'm putting the last dish on the drying rack, the doorbell rings, cutting through the laughter like a sharp knife. We all freeze, exchanging confused glances. "Who could that be?" I mutter, wiping my hands on a dish towel.

Monica shrugs. "No idea, but you better answer before they think you're ignoring them. Could be a surprise pizza delivery."

Celine giggles. "Or Maya, coming back with a peace offering."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Or maybe it's Santa Claus, here early to give you a lesson on joke-telling."

I roll my eyes, but there's a nervous edge creeping into my thoughts. I force a laugh, trying to keep it light. "Alright, alright, I'll go see. But if it's a prank, you're all on clean-up duty for a week."

I walk toward the door, but as I turn the knob, something in my gut twists. I'm not sure why, but I suddenly feel like things are about to change. I push the feeling aside and swing the door open. And then, just like that, everything shifts.

Aaliyah is standing there, her face pale and her eyes wide with a kind of fear I've never seen in her before.