THE GIRL WHO LOVES SUNSET

Ava Dawson had always thought that her real life would begin one day.

One day, she'd leave her tiny apartment in Phoenix.

One day, she would no longer work double shifts at Silver Oaks Nursing Center.

One day, she would fall in love, real love, the kind that didn't leave bruises on the heart.

But one day never comes unless something breaks first.

For Ava, it happened on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and old lavender perfume—Mrs. Helmsley’s perfume. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing like tired bees. Ava was halfway through delivering the lunch trays when her phone buzzed in her scrub pocket.

She almost ignored it, but an odd instinct told her to look.

The text message glowed like a knife blade on the screen.

Mark: I need a break. I need to move to Chicago for work. Don't wait for me.

Her breath hitched.

Three years, reduced to fourteen words.

Just like that.

No conversation.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

A hollow thud echoed in her chest. The ground no longer wanted to hold her, and she felt the hallway tilt beneath her feet. She leaned against the wall, pulse thundering.

“Sweetheart?” came a soft, cracking voice.

Mrs. Nora Helmsley, 68 years old, frail yet sharp-eyed, sat in her wheelchair by the open door of her room. She watched Ava with that knowing look only older women could give.

"Are you alright?" the old woman asked.

Ava swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just. thinking."

Mrs. Helmsley sniffed, “Your eyes are too shiny for thinking.”

Ava pressed her lips together. She didn't trust her voice enough to answer.

Another room called with the ring of a bell, and Ava was back in the present. She stood straight, jammed her phone into her pocket, and went into automatic: vital signs checked, meals delivered, pillows adjusted. Her hands did their job as they had for three years, but her brain whirled like an out-of-balance wheel.

By the time her shift ended, the Arizona sun had dropped low, casting the parking lot in shades of orange and gold. Ava stepped outside, holding her backpack. The air felt heavier than usual, thick with the scent of heated asphalt and desert wind.

She sat in her rusted Honda Civic for nearly ten minutes, staring at her reflection in the windshield.

Who was she, outside of this—outside of Phoenix, outside of heartbreak?

A girl who stayed.

A girl who prevailed.

A girl who hoped life would change on its own.

But as the last of the sunlight disappeared, she realized something profound:

Nothing changes unless you change it.

She had nothing left to lose.

That night, Ava packed everything she owned into a single suitcase. It didn’t take long—her life had never been heavy: a few folded clothes, her childhood journal, the flower-shaped necklace her mom left her, and the $642 she had saved in a small envelope inside a shoe box.

Barely enough to survive a week.

Just enough to buy a one-way plane ticket.

She gazed at the credit card she had almost cut in half after one too many fights with Mark. “Last resort,” she whispered, sliding it into her wallet.

She booked an early morning flight to San Francisco, a city she had dreamed about since she was twelve years old. A city she had only seen in pictures, with the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset, with the fog embracing the cliffs, the artists, dreamers, and souls brave enough to chase something better.

A place where nobody knew her.

A place where she could breathe.

Her hands trembled as she clicked “Confirm Purchase.”

Just like that, one day became today.

Ava didn't sleep that night, her mind rac­ing with half-formed fears and fragile hopes. What if she failed? What if she ran out of money? What if she couldn't find a job? What if San Francisco wasn't where she was meant to start over?

But then a different fear whispered in the dark:

What if you never try?

She showered at 4:30 a.m., tied her hair up in a messy bun, and then scribbled out a small note to her landlord to let him know she had moved out. She left the keys on the table.

The Uber to the airport felt unreal as the streetlights blurred by her window. She watched Phoenix crumble behind her like the ending of a chapter.

At the airport, Ava stood in line at security, clutching her boarding pass like a lifeline, her heart hammering with a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.

She was doing it.

She was really doing it.

But just as she reached her gate, she saw the flashing message on the screen:

FLIGHT DELAYED – New time: 6:45 PM

Her mouth parted in disbelief.

"Are you kidding me?" she whispered.

People grumbled around her. A mother argued with a gate agent. A businessman muttered curses under his breath. Ava sank into a chair and pressed her face into her palms.

All day. She would be stuck here all day.

Her chest constricted. Was this a sign? Was the universe telling her to stay in Phoenix? Had she been foolish to think she could just run away and become someone new?

She sought to steady her breathing, but tears pushed their insistent way through.

"Excuse me," a voice softly said.

Ava looked up.

A man stood a few feet away, tall and well-dressed in a charcoal-gray coat that looked both expensive and comfortably worn. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd been running a hand through it repeatedly. He had the kind of face you noticed instantly-strong jawline, warm eyes, and a quiet intensity that made you look twice.

His suitcase sat by his feet.

“Flight to San Francisco?” he asked, nodding toward the gate.

Ava wiped her cheeks quickly. “Yeah. Delayed.”

He smiled softly, in understanding. “Same here.”

She nodded awkwardly before looking away. He didn't walk off. After a moment, he sat down beside her—leaving just enough space to be polite.

“I’m Ethan,” he said.

“Ava.”

“Rough day?” he asked quietly.

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Something like that.”

“Me too,” he said quietly. “Though I really do think sometimes airports enjoy watching people fume and fret.

Ava managed a small, surprised smile. “You might be right.”

Ethan's gaze flicked to her tear-stained cheeks, but he didn't pry. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his voice soft. "You know… delays aren't always bad. Sometimes they put you exactly where you're supposed to be."