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Flight Risk

Andy had loved a woman who could fly, and she understood that sometimes, love was not about holding on, but about letting go. It was about giving the other person the space to fly, and in doing so, discovering your own sky.

By Paige HollowayPublished 5 months ago 4 min read

The seafoam green rotary phone, an anachronistic gem surrounded by the organized chaos of Andy's loft, rang, the sharp trill slicing through the hush of a Sunday afternoon. Andy, cocooned in her sunshine-yellow chaise lounge, a half-finished manuscript on her lap, picked up the receiver, the anticipation of Kyla's voice a sweet pang in her chest.

"How is your trip?" Andy answered, beaming with the bittersweet joy of reconnecting with a temporarily distanced lover.

"Andy," Kyla's voice was a whisper, a ghost of her usual vibrant lilt, "I think we need to talk."

What was meant to be a casual Sunday conversation turned into a dance around an invisible elephant in the room. They exchanged pleasantries, indulging in the mundane stories of their day. The misadventures of Mr. Higgins, their grouchy neighbor, Kyla's triumph over a particularly stubborn crossword puzzle, the sale on cherry-red lipstick at the local drugstore. The banter was a comfortable blanket, a temporary haven from the conversation lurking in the shadows.

Finally, like a pebble disrupting a still pond, Kyla's confession tumbled out, "Andy, I can fly."

The revelation hung between them, a silent thunderclap. "You can...what?" Andy stammered, a soft chuckle escaping her lips, expecting Kyla to join in, to reveal the punchline of a bizarre joke. But the line was heavy with a truth Andy wasn't ready to comprehend.

"I can fly, Andy. And I think it's time for me to spread my wings," Kyla said, resolute. "It's over."

There was a finality in her tone, an unmistakeable goodbye that echoed in the hollow silence of their apartment. The days that followed were a blur, a montage of heartbreak and denial. The apartment, once a cocoon of shared memories, felt too vast, too empty. The lingering traces of Kyla were a cruel reminder of what once was - the indentation on the couch where Kyla liked to curl up, the unfinished painting on the easel, the dog-eared poetry book with Kyla's annotations in the margins. Each corner of the loft was a testament to a love that had fluttered and then dived, leaving Andy in a freefall of heartache.

A week later, in a moment of profound loneliness, Andy found herself reaching for the phone. Her fingers, knowing the rhythm by heart, dialed Kyla's number. "Kyla," she whispered into the receiver, her voice caught in a web of emotions, "Can we... can we try this again?"

There was a pause, a moment that stretched into a lifetime. "Andy," Kyla's voice was a sigh, a whisper of the wind, "I think it's time you saw with your own eyes. I'm coming home. Meet me on the rooftop at 8 o'clock."

The rooftop was a stage set against the backdrop of the twilight of the summer sky. Kyla, in her sunflower-dotted sundress, was a silhouette at the edge, a beautiful enigma bathed in the glow of the setting sun. Andy watched, her heart lodged in her throat, as Kyla stepped off the edge. Instead of the expected descent, Kyla hovered in the air, a vision of ethereal beauty against the canvas of the twilight sky.

With an outstretched hand, Kyla beckoned Andy. For a heartbeat, Andy felt a tug, a fleeting sensation of weightlessness. But the relentless pull of gravity anchored her to the solid rooftop. "I'm sorry, Andy," Kyla's voice was a feather on the wind, a farewell whispered to the evening sky, "We were meant to love, not to bind."

As if the wind was her dance partner, Kyla twirled and ascended, her laughter a melody blending with the city's symphony. With one last blown kiss, she vanished into the twilight, leaving Andy standing on the rooftop, a blend of heartache and awe mingling in her chest.

The rooftop, once the witness of clandestine kisses and whispered dreams, was now a testament to a love lost and a truth unveiled. As the remnants of twilight faded into the vast, inky night, Andy found herself alone under the watchful gaze of the moon. She stared at the night sky, contemplating the silhouette of her flying lover against the star-speckled canvas.

As she descended the stairs, the rhythmic thump of her heart a comforting metronome. Andy had loved a woman who could fly, and she understood that sometimes, love was not about holding on, but about letting go. It was about giving the other person the space to fly, and in doing so, discovering your own sky.

Short StoryLove

About the Creator

Paige Holloway

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