“Thank you for teaching me how disposable I was to you. Thank you for making it easy to let go when you showed me I meant nothing. I hope Hanabi gives you the happiness you never gave me.”
I added one last line.
Goodbye.
I sent it.
Then I lit the match.
I watched from the shadows as the fire swallowed the house. The memories. The pain. The woman who had begged to be loved.
Nana used to run through those halls shouting my name.
“Mommy, look at me!”
She used to wrap her arms around my neck and whisper, “I love you.”
Now she was calling someone else Mommy.
I crushed the ache down. Feelings were useless where I was going.
By the time the fire trucks arrived, it was too late. The body was unrecognizable. And just like that, Miya Colombo was dead.
The next morning, the news exploded everywhere.
...
GUSION’S POV
The jet landed smooth, exactly how my life worked when I kept emotions out of it. I adjusted my cufflinks, stepped onto the runway, and thought about how clean everything felt once Miya was out of the picture.