Proposal

Darla’s pov

I take a step back. Just one. But it feels like I’m stepping out of my own body, like the ground beneath me isn’t real anymore. Like the whole world just tilted sideways, and I’m the only one who noticed. My brain—God, my brain is a mess. Thoughts crash into each other, sparks flying, static buzzing, like a million tiny fireworks set off all at once. It’s too much. It’s too fast. I can’t think, I can’t breathe.

Did Ethan really just say that? Did I hear him right?

I stare at him, his face way too close, his arms barely touching my waist now, hesitant, unsure, but still there. He’s looking at me like—I don’t even know. Like I’m the only person in the room. Like I’m the only thing that matters. And that look… that look isn’t one I’ve ever seen on his face before. Not like this. Not with this kind of intensity.

My lips part, but nothing comes out. No words, no sound, just air. My heart pounds so loud I swear everyone can hear it. I could see the anger on Roy’s face as he stood behind Ethan, what a twist, who knew that I would be proposed to at his own wedding. They had no idea what’s happening to me. No idea that my whole life just flipped upside down in the middle of all this.

Because my fiancé—my actual fiancé—is standing somewhere across this room, getting ready to marry another woman. And I… I am carrying his child. And now—now Ethan, his best friend, is standing in front of me, asking me something I never expected.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

“Darla,” Ethan’s voice is softer now, pulling me back, tethering me to the moment. My eyes flicker up, catching his—those deep green eyes that have always been steady, always been familiar. But now? Now they’re something else. Something more.

I swallow hard, my throat tight, my chest even tighter.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My voice barely makes it out. And then I pull away from his grasp, step back again, putting distance where there wasn’t any before. Because if I don’t, I might break completely.

I don’t want to reject him. God, I don’t. Every part of me is screaming not to. But before I even realize what’s happening, my body moves on its own. My heels turn, my legs push forward, and suddenly, I’m running.

I hear my name—his voice, calling me, desperate, confused. Of course, I recognize it. Of course, it makes something sharp twist in my chest. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My breath is uneven, my dress clings to me as I push past people, their faces nothing but blurred flashes in my vision.

Just keep going. Just get out.

“Taxi!” I shout the moment I burst through the building doors.

By some miracle, a cab is waiting right there, like fate—or maybe just dumb luck—decided to give me a way out. Without hesitating, I rush to it, yank open the door, and throw myself inside. “Go. Just go,” I tell the driver, my voice rushed, breathless.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. Ethan. He’s there. He chased me.

If I had been even a second slower, if my feet had stumbled, he would have caught up. And then what? What would I have said to him? What words could I possibly string together that would make any of this make sense? I can’t think straight, my head is too full, my heart is too heavy.

So I do the one thing I know how to do right now. The only thing I can do. I run away.

The taxi pulls off before he reaches me, and I sink into the seat, letting out a breath I had been holding. Relief crashes over me, but it’s the kind that comes with an ache. The kind that doesn’t actually feel good.

The drive takes thirty minutes, but it feels like a long, like I’m drifting outside of myself. When we finally stop, I shove some cash at the driver without looking and step out, staring up at the motel.

My home is gone. My family is gone. I have been lodging in this motel for three days now.

I rush inside, my pulse still racing, my body moving like I’m being chased—even though Ethan isn’t here. Even though no one is watching. Still, the feeling won’t leave.

Once I’m in my room, I don’t hesitate. I drop to my knees, reach under the bed, and yank out my suitcase. Throw it onto the mattress, unzip it in one rough motion. And then I start stuffing my clothes into it, my hands shaking, my breath uneven.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m doing.

All I know is that I can’t stay here.

After packing everything, I zip up my black luggage with a final, sharp tug. The sound echoes in the quiet room, and for a moment, I just stand there, staring at it. At this suitcase filled with everything I have left. It’s not much. It doesn’t feel like enough.

But it’s all I have.

I grab the handle and pull it behind me as I step out, my heart pounding with every step. Down the hallway, through the lobby. I check out of the motel with barely a word, avoiding the curious glance of the receptionist.

The taxi ride to the airport is silent. I don’t say anything. The driver doesn’t say anything. The world outside the window drifts into a mess of streetlights and fading sunlight, and I don’t even try to focus. I just sit there, gripping my hands together in my lap, trying to ignore the gnawing ache in my chest.

By the time I arrive, the sky is slipping into darkness. 6 PM. Evening. The airport is busy but not chaotic. People rush past me, moving toward destinations they actually planned for. Unlike me.

I’m lucky to even get a flight. A last-minute ticket, an emergency booking, whatever they call it. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I get on that plane. That I leave.

I check in, moving through the motions like I’m in a daze.

Dragging my luggage past the last checkpoint, I hear it.

My name.

“Darla.”

I freeze.

That voice. That familiar, deep, desperate voice. I don’t have to turn around to know who it belongs to.

Ethan.

A part of me wants to look. To turn, to see his face, to—what? What would I even say to him? What would he say to me?

I force my feet to keep moving. I can’t do this. I can’t look at him.

“Please don’t leave.”

His voice is pleading now, raw and real in a way I’ve never heard before. I can hear the struggle, the way he’s trying to get past security, telling them he just wants to talk to me. But they won’t let him through. No ticket, no entry. That’s the rule.

How did he know that I would be at the airport, was he tracking me?

I keep walking.

Every step feels burdensome, like something inside me is trying to pull me back.

But I don’t stop.

I don’t look.

Because if I do, it’ll feel like rejecting him all over again.

And I don’t think I can survive that.

So I roll my luggage forward and board the plane without a single glance back.

There’s nothing left for me here. My family is gone. My fiancé married someone else. And all I have now is the life growing inside me.

And even that—I don’t know if I should keep it.

Because what kind of life would this child have if the father doesn’t even want them? If I don’t even know where I belong?

Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.

I just sit down, buckle my seatbelt, and stare straight ahead as the plane prepares for takeoff.

I must have slept for a while because when I open my eyes, the plane has already landed. The soft hum of voices, the shuffle of passengers gathering their belongings—it all feels distant, like I’m still caught between dreaming and waking.

For a second, I don’t move. I just sit there, staring at the seat in front of me, my mind foggy, my body heavy. But then reality crashes back in, and I remember where I am. Why I’m here.

New York City.

I swallow hard, pushing myself up. Grabbing my bag, my suitcase. Stepping off the plane and into the cold air of a city that somehow feels both familiar and foreign.

The drive from the airport to the house is an hour long. An hour of staring out the window, watching the city rush past. It’s been years since I was here, yet everything still looks the same. The same towering buildings. The same crowded streets. The same restless energy.

But I am not the same.

By the time I reach the house, my hands are shaking. It stands there, just as I remember it, but somehow smaller. Emptier. Everything crashes into me the moment I step through the door.

Memories. They’re everywhere.

A twelve-year-old me running down the halls, laughing without a care in the world. My parents calling me for dinner. The warmth, the safety, the feeling that nothing bad could ever touch us.

Now?

Now, the silence is suffocating.

I drop my bag by the door, my breaths coming unevenly. My fingers fumble as I reach inside, pulling out the family portrait. The glass frame is cool against my skin as I stare down at it.

Their faces. Smiling. Happy. Alive.

A choked sob escapes me before I can stop it. My legs give out, and I crash to the floor, clutching the frame to my chest. Tears blur my vision, spilling down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I can’t.

I never even got to say goodbye.

And now, they’re gone.