blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

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Aurora's POV:

The pen feels heavy in my hand, like it doesn't want to move. I sit at Taylor's kitchen table, staring at the blank page in front of me, willing the words to come. But how do you put a goodbye into words when it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest?
I don't want to do this. Every part of me is screaming to stop. To crumple this paper, wait for her and Feli, and bury myself in her arms like I always do when the world feels too much. But I can't. If I stay, I'll break both of us.

My mom's voice echoes in my head, sharp and unrelenting: "We're leaving for Seattle tonight, Aurora. Your Dad got a new job, plus New York seems to be ruining you. Pack your stuff."

My throat tightens at the memory. I couldn't even look at Taylor when she kissed me goodbye earlier this afternoon. I knew then that I wouldn't be able to say the words to her face. I knew it was the last time I would ever get a taste of her lips.
So here I am, writing this pathetic note, leaving her with nothing but questions and pain. But isn't that better than the long, slow death of trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away?

My hand shakes as I write:

"I'm sorry. I love you forever, to the moon and to Saturn. Goodbye, love Aurora."

I press the pen down hard at the end, the period smudging slightly as if the universe itself doesn't want this to be final.
When I'm done, I stare at the words for a long time. They don't feel real. None of this does. I fold the note carefully and leave it on the table where I know she'll find it. Then I grab my bag and head to the door, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. One last look. The apartment smells like her—faint vanilla and lavender, mixed with the comforting scent of home. My gaze falls to  my wrist, to the bracelet Taylor gave me for Christmas last year. I softly brush my fingertips against the cool metal, closing my eyes for a second, tears rolling down my cheeks.

A few seconds later I swipe at my eyes and force myself to turn the handle. I can't stay. If I stay, I'll crumble.

The walk home feels like I'm moving through molasses. Every step is heavy, pulling me further away from her, further away from the life I knew.

When I get home, my mom is already packing up the kitchen, her face set in that determined, no-nonsense way she has. My dad's in the living room, breaking down boxes. Alyssa is in her room, probably crying because she didn't want to leave either.
I go to my room and close the door, collapsing onto my bed. The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating me with memories of a life I'll never have again.

I shove everything into boxes like a robot, my body moving on autopilot while my mind screams. This isn't fair. This isn't what I wanted.

By the time we load the car and pull away from the house, the sun is setting over New York, casting everything in a golden glow that feels mocking. I press my forehead to the car window, watching the city fade into the distance.
And when we cross the state line, I finally let the tears fall. Because I know I've just left my heart behind.

——

It's strange, sitting here in my tiny L.A. apartment, looking out at the city lights, knowing that this is the life I somehow dreamed of—and yet, some nights, I feel so... hollow.

I'm twenty-one now but sometimes I feel like I left a part of myself behind. That day in June when my mom sat me down and said we were moving to Seattle for my dad's job, I thought my chest would cave in. Taylor was my everything—my first love, my first real sense of belonging. But when my mom told me, all I could think about was how it would kill me to try to keep us alive from thousands of miles away. How would we survive?