We never reached the lake. I tried carrying her so she could at least see the moon’s reflection on the water, but her breathing got weaker, and she slipped away under the stars.
I handled the funeral alone, just like I’d done everything else for years. Back at our quiet, empty house, I sat on the floor of her room, surrounded by her things, and let the emptiness sink in.
And then, my phone buzzed with a message from my sister, Patricia that night. She’d sent a picture of her and Kelvin on a mountain trail, with a caption: “Thanks for the best weekend ever, Kelvin. You always know how to make me feel special!”
I stared at the screen, my chest tight. Waiting for the shock to turn into something—anger? Pain? But there was nothing. Just a numb acceptance. Why was I even surprised?
Packing up my things, I worked in silence, my movements steady, even as my heart felt like it was tearing itself apart.
It was almost midnight when I dragged my suitcase downstairs, planning to leave without a word. But there he was, like fate couldn’t let me go that easily.
Kelvin walked in, supporting Patricia, her arm in a sling, her face bruised with faint scratches.