Eight Years Of Waiting For His Flight Schedule Ended With A One-Way Ticket Chapter 05

Eight Years Of Waiting For His Flight Schedule Ended With A One-Way Ticket Chapter 05

The sun in Sierra Vista was brutal. It softened your bones.

I rented a small house with a courtyard near the lake. Paid six months upfront.

The landlady was an older woman. When she saw me dragging my suitcase alone, she helped carry my stuff inside.

*Sweetheart, you here on vacation by yourself?*

*Not vacation. Moving here.* I started setting my books on the windowsill shelf.

*Good for you. This place heals people.* She smiled and left.

I fell onto the bed with its fresh sheets and looked up at the carved wooden ceiling beams.

No engine roar. No radar screen. No waiting.

The best sleep I’d had in eight years.

Thousands of miles away in Reykjavik… I didn’t want to know what Nathan was doing, but Sophie told me later.

He and Amber got to the glass-dome hotel in Finland.

Out of habit, he pulled out his phone to text me. It had become routine—no matter how little attention he paid me back home, he’d always send a pin to prove he’d “checked in.”

[Clara, I’m at the hotel.]

He hit send.

A red exclamation mark appeared next to the message.

[Your message could not be delivered because the recipient has blocked you.]

He froze.

Amber came out of the bathroom in a lazy nightgown and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“Nathan, what are you looking at? The Lights are about to come out.”

He frowned and turned off the screen.

“Nothing. Maybe her phone’s not getting signal.”

He thought I was just throwing a tantrum. Blocking him.

In eight years I’d never blocked him. No matter how bad the fight, I always left a light on for him.

He figured if he bought me a bag and said a few soft words, I’d get over it like always.

He spent five days in Finland with Amber watching the Northern Lights.

Posted three times on Instagram. All back-of-the-head shots and

scenery.

What he didn’t know was that every day in Finland, something felt off. Like walking on cotton.

On day six, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He called the property management office.

“Carol, can you go check on my apartment? Make sure Clara isn’t sick in bed?”

Carol was quiet for a long moment.

“Mr. Hayes? What are you talking about? Mrs. Hayes moved out last Wednesday.”

“Moved out?” His voice shot up.

“Last Wednesday afternoon. She left with her suitcase. She even deleted her fingerprint from the smart lock. She didn’t tell you?”

Dead silence on the line.

Nathan hung up. Left Amber there. Booked the next flight back.

When he pushed open the apartment door, it was pitch black.

No warm soup. No light left on in the living room.

He turned on the lights.

The coffee table was clean. My coasters were gone.

He hurried to the shoe rack. My slippers were gone.

He ran to the bedroom and yanked open the closet.

It hit him like a physical blow.

Half the closet was empty. My two sections of clothes—every single piece—gone.

He tore through the apartment like a madman looking for traces of me.

No toothbrush in the bathroom. No books in the study. Even the rocking chair on the balcony was gone.

Finally, on the corner of the dining table, he found what I’d left.

A set of apartment keys.

A single sheet of paper.

And that duty-free face cream he’d given me as a lie.

The paper had one sentence. My handwriting didn’t shake at all.

[Nathan, I just wasted eight years on you. We’re done. Don’t look for me.]

He stared at the paper. His hands trembled so badly he could barely hold it.

“Clara…”

Her name came out of his throat like he couldn’t believe it.

He ran to the trash can and found the shredded photo inside.

Our picture from four years ago.

Now he panicked. His hands shook as he dialed my number.

[I’m sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.]

I hadn’t just blocked him. I’d canceled the number I’d had for eight years.

He fell back onto the couch, staring at the empty apartment.

Only then did he realize that when I decided to leave, everything I owned in that house fit into two boxes.

I’d never once been inside his thirty thousand feet.

And I didn’t even leave him my shadow.