6: A FRESH START.

Layla's pov

Claudia's words stayed with me long after she left.

I sat on the couch in the apartment that felt too small and too full of ghosts, stared at the bassinet in the corner and the tiny clothes I'd folded with such hope, tried to imagine staying here surrounded by all these reminders of what I'd lost.

Every room held a memory of preparing for her.

The nursery I'd painted pale yellow because I hadn't known if she'd be a boy or girl.

The rocking chair I'd found at an estate sale and refinished myself.

The changing table still covered in unopened packages of diapers and wipes.

All of it mocking me now, all of it screaming that my daughter should be here and wasn't.

I picked up my phone and looked at the Paris search I'd started, at flights and apartment listings and language schools, at the possibility of becoming someone else somewhere far away.

What was keeping me here?

My parents were dead, buried in a cemetery I couldn't bear to visit.

My scholarship was gone, revoked when the university expelled me for bringing scandal to their pristine reputation.

My future had disappeared the moment that forum post went up, the moment everyone started whispering about the pregnant girl who'd made such a mistake.

And now my daughter was gone too.

What was left?

Nothing but an apartment full of baby things I'd never use and questions nobody would answer and the crushing weight of grief that made it hard to breathe.

Maybe Claudia was right.

Maybe staying here was just prolonging the pain, keeping me trapped in a nightmare I needed to escape.

I opened my laptop and started making lists, started planning because planning gave me something to focus on besides the emptiness, something concrete I could control when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

First, the apartment.

I could sublet it or break the lease, take the financial hit because money didn't matter anymore when nothing mattered.

Second, my parents' house.

I'd been avoiding dealing with it since they died, couldn't bear to go through their things and decide what to keep and what to throw away, but if I was leaving I needed to sell it, needed to turn their memories into cash that could fund my escape.

Third, everything else.

The baby furniture I could donate.

The clothes could go to charity.

All the hope and preparation and love I'd poured into getting ready for her could be boxed up and given away to someone whose baby actually survived.

I spent the next two weeks moving through my life like I was dismantling a stage set, taking apart the pieces of who I used to be and packing them away.

The realtor who came to look at my parents' house was kind and professional, didn't ask too many questions about why I needed to sell quickly, just gave me a number that seemed reasonable and started the paperwork.

Claudia came with me the day I had to clear out their belongings, helped me sort through closets and drawers, made decisions when I couldn't about what to keep and what to let go.

"You should take this," she said while holding up my mother's jewelry box. "Start fresh but keep something of hers with you."

I took it because she was right, because I needed some small piece of my past to carry forward even if everything else got left behind.

We donated most of the furniture and packed the personal items into boxes I put in storage, closed up the empty house and drove away while I tried not to think about how this was the last piece of my childhood disappearing.

The apartment went faster.

I gave notice to my landlord, donated the baby furniture to a women's shelter, packed my own belongings into two suitcases because if I was starting over I didn't need much, just enough clothes and a few photos and my mother's jewelry box.

Everything else could stay behind.

Claudia helped me book the flight, sat beside me at my laptop while we looked at one way tickets to Paris and she talked about how good this would be for me, how healing it would be to get away from everything.

"You'll love Paris," she said while clicking through apartment listings. "It's beautiful and romantic and so far from here that you can finally breathe."

I nodded because I didn't have the energy to argue, didn't have the strength to do anything except let her guide me through the logistics of running away.

The death certificate never came.

I called the hospital twice more and both times was told it was still being processed, that these things took time, that someone would contact me when it was ready.

Eventually I stopped calling because what did it matter, what would a piece of paper change when my daughter was already gone.

Claudia offered to collect it when it finally arrived, promised to mail it to me in Paris along with anything else I might need.

"You don't have to worry about any of that," she said. "Just focus on getting settled and starting your new life."

The morning of my flight arrived too quickly and too slowly at the same time.

I stood in my empty apartment one last time, looked at the bare walls and the vacant spaces where furniture used to be, tried to remember what it felt like when this place held hope instead of grief.

My phone buzzed with a text from Claudia.

I'm outside. Ready when you are.

I grabbed my suitcases and walked out without looking back, locked the door on everything I used to be.

Claudia was waiting by her car with coffee and a bright smile, took one of my suitcases and loaded it into the trunk while chattering about how exciting this was, how brave I was being.

The drive to the airport felt surreal, the city passing by the windows like I was already a ghost here, already gone.

"You're doing the right thing," Claudia said while navigating through traffic. "I know it doesn't feel like it now but this is exactly what you need, distance and time and space to heal."

"I don't feel like I'm healing," I said and stared out the window. "I just feel numb."

"Numb is better than the pain you were in," she glanced at me quickly before turning her eyes back to the road. "And eventually the numbness will fade and you'll be able to feel things again, good things, in a place that doesn't remind you of everything you lost."

We parked and she helped me get my bags from the trunk, walked with me into the terminal even though I told her she didn't need to.

"I want to," she said. "I want to see you off properly."

We stood in line at the check-in counter and I went through the motions mechanically, answered questions and showed my passport and watched my suitcases disappear onto the conveyor belt.

Everything I owned now reduced to two bags and a carryon.

Everything I was reduced to a one way ticket and a desperate need to be anywhere but here.

Claudia walked me as far as security would allow, hugged me tight while other travelers moved around us.

"Take care of yourself," she said into my hair. "And don't look back, just keep moving forward."

"Thank you," I said because I was supposed to, because she'd been there through everything even when nobody else had been. "For helping me through all of this."

"That's what friends are for," she pulled back and smiled at me, bright and wide and something in her eyes that I couldn't quite read. "Now go, start your new life, be happy."

I got in the security line and turned back once to wave.

Claudia was still standing there watching me, her hand raised in farewell, her smile just a little too wide, her eyes just a little too bright.

She looked excited.

Not sad that I was leaving or worried about me going so far away alone.

Just excited, almost relieved, like she'd been waiting for this moment.

The thought made something cold settle in my stomach but the line was moving and people were pushing forward and I didn't have time to analyze the expression on her face.

I went through security and found my gate and sat in the uncomfortable airport chair while announcements echoed overhead and travelers rushed past.

My flight was called and I boarded with everyone else, found my seat by the window and buckled myself in while the plane filled around me.

The engines started and we began to taxi toward the runway, the city getting smaller through the window as we picked up speed.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and watched everything I'd ever known disappear below me as the plane lifted into the sky.

Paris waited ahead, a city I'd never been to, a life I'd never lived, a future that felt as empty as my arms.

But at least it would be a different kind of empty.

At least there I wouldn't have to walk past the hospital or see pregnant women in grocery stores or answer questions about why I didn't have my baby.

There I could be nobody, someone with no history and no tragedy and no unanswered questions.

The plane climbed higher and I closed my eyes against the brightness of the clouds, let the medication I'd taken before boarding pull me under into sleep.

When I woke up I'd be someone else.

When I woke up I'd be in Paris.

When I woke up maybe I could finally start to forget.