Cameron suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood and collapsed to the floor.
Without missing a beat, Greta called an ambulance. As the medics loaded Cameron in, one looked at her and asked, “Are you family? If you are, we’ll need you to come along for some paperwork.”
Greta shot Cameron a cool glance. She didn’t hesitate. “Sorry, we’re just friends.”
She scribbled a phone number onto a slip of paper and handed it to the medic. “If anything comes up, call this number.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, not once looking back.
This time, she left for good—no hesitation, no second thoughts.
People are strange, she thought to herself. Just a moment ago, she’d missed him so much it hurt. But seeing him now—unkempt, pushing her away again—all that burning love just… vanished, like the tide slipping out to sea.
Gone, without a trace.
“Cameron, from now on, you’re on your own.”
She wanted to finally start living for herself.
It hit her: everyone is their own person. No one belongs to anyone else.
When Greta got home, she found her mother, Miranda, sitting in her wheelchair. Miranda’s hair was now completely white, her face gaunt and old beyond her years. The years had stiffened her body; she barely moved, almost like a puppet whose strings had gone slack. Only her eyes still flickered with a bit of life.

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