What Was Eric Clapton'S Last Concert Setlist?

Eight years ago, I broke the heart of the boy I loved. Now, after eight years overseas, Liam Hayes was finally coming home with his new girlfriend to meet his family. That same day, the hospital gave me its final answer. The cancer had won. There was nothing left to treat. Nothing left to try. They sent me home with only time. When Liam saw my mother helping me into a wheelchair, a cold smile touched his mouth. “Eight years,” he said. “And this is what became of you? You can’t even walk anymore?” Disgust laced every word. I only tugged the sleeve of my down coat lower, hiding the cluster of needle marks across the back of my hand. “It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “I fell and broke a bone. That’s all.” Liam gave a short, bitter laugh. “In that case, I’m getting married soon. Why don’t you come be my fiancée’s bridesmaid?” I smiled as if it did not hurt at all. “No, thank you. I’m about to leave for somewhere very far away.” Then I patted the back of Mom’s hand, silently asking her to take me home.

"Please, stop pushing. I can't take this anymore." The concert venue is packed tight. A man behind me keeps pressing into my backside. I'm wearing a mini skirt today with a thong underneath, and it only makes the situation worse. He lifts my skirt and presses himself against my hips. As the atmosphere heats up, someone in front of me slams into me, and I stumble back a step. My body stiffens as I feel like something just slid inside me.

My wife is a pilot. We had our wedding three years ago, but she's stood me up 18 times since then when we agreed to register our marriage. The first time she stood me up was when her apprentice took his first flight. I waited outside city hall the whole day for her. The second time she stood me up was when she turned around after receiving a call from her apprentice. She left me by the roadside. Later, whenever we set a date to register our marriage, her apprentice would run into all sorts of trouble. Finally, I decided to leave her. But after I board a flight to Avalonia, she chases me all the way there like she's lost her mind.

During the long National Day holidays, I planned a Golden Highlands trip for the whole family. I even booked tickets for a luxurious train ride so we could enjoy the scenery. But on departure day, my husband and son vanished. I called my husband. I could hear an airport boarding announcement in the background. My voice trembled. "Where are you?" He panicked and mumbled that the company had an emergency before hanging up. I tried calling again, but the line was busy. The next day, he posted an update on his social media. In the photo, he stood beneath the snowy peaks of Wintercrown with one arm around his old love while the other held our son. The caption read: [If we had been a little braver back then...] A friend commented: [Where is your wife?] I stared at his reply: [She's sick and resting at home.] Three expired train tickets sat on the table as my eyes welled up with tears. A decade of marriage. A pack of lies. It was time to bring it all to a close.

On the flight home, the plane starts shaking violently. Certain I'm about to die, I call my husband, Rhys Callahan, to say my last words. He hangs up on me, and his auto-reply flashes on the screen. "Driving. On my way to pick up Daphne." I've taken 86 flights in our five years of marriage. Every time I'm about to land, I ask him to come get me, and every time, the answer is the same. "Daphne's getting in too. I have to pick her up." He picks up Daphne Langston all 86 times. The lowest point comes during a rainstorm. I drag my suitcase through the downpour outside the terminal for two hours, unable to get a ride. When I call him, Daphne's voice comes through, laughing. "Oh, Rhys is helping me with my luggage right now. He can't come to the phone." Now the cabin fills with screaming and sobbing. The plane spirals out of control at cruising altitude, the left wing shearing away as flames light up the windows. My phone buzzes with a message from him. "Just picked Daphne up. What time do you land? I'll come get you." I stare at the screen and let out a bitter laugh. After five years, he's finally offering to pick me up. But fire swallows the plane as it plunges toward the ground. He doesn't know I'm no longer coming home.

Jason Collier was an RV vlogger with over ten million followers. He was also my fiancé. He spent more than half the year in Northreach, a remote stretch out west with empty desert highways and snowcapped mountains. He said the backcountry had zero signal, so going MIA for two weeks was totally normal. I bought it. To bankroll his road trip across Radenska, I mortgaged the apartment we were supposed to live in after the wedding. I helped pay for the RV build, his crew, and the channel that made him famous. He promised once the trip blew up, he'd come home and marry me. So every day, I checked the weather, scared he'd get buried in a blizzard, flip the RV, or die alone out there. Then a local travel creator named Mabel Jibb dropped a new video. Jason was standing on top of a sixteen-thousand-foot mountain, using the satellite phone I'd bought him to livestream the sunrise over the snow-covered peaks for her. Mabel whined that she was cold. Jason turned the camera away right away and spent the next half hour babying her. That same day, I came down with acute appendicitis. The pain hit so hard, I dropped to my knees outside the ER. I sent him ninety-nine messages. He ignored every single one. Turns out, the backcountry never killed his signal. Just mine. From that day on, I stopped mailing him freeze-dried meals. Stopped paying the RV loan. Stopped taking his collection calls. And stopped sending him three safety reminders a day. Not long after, a towing company stopped his RV at a rest stop. That finally got him to call. "Why'd you stop making the RV payments?" No hello. No asking how I was. I snapped a picture of the collection notice and termination agreement and sent them over. "Because starting tomorrow, the RV, the channel, and your ten million followers aren't my problem anymore."