A Kiss For Three

chapter 27

I woke up before the sun. The city was still asleep, but my heart wasn’t—it was a hammer in my chest, beating out a single word: go.

I moved on instinct. No music, no coffee, no breakfast. Just movement. My hands grabbed whatever they could—clothes, charger, passport, toothbrush—shoving them into a suitcase like I was packing away my entire existence. It was messy, chaotic, and unplanned. But that was fitting, wasn’t it? My life had been nothing but chaos.

I zipped the bag shut and sat beside it, staring at the wall. The clock ticked loud in the silence, and I counted every second like it was mocking me.

Leaving. That was the only way. I couldn’t tell Nico and Adrian about their wives—how could I? It would have broken them. And if I stayed, Camille would have torn my life apart and dragged them down with me. There was no path left that didn’t end in blood or ruin.

So I did the one thing I’d always been good at—disappearing.

My phone rang. Daniel. I hesitated for a heartbeat before picking up. “Yeah?”

“You sound like hell,” he said flatly.

“Felt like it, too.”

There was a pause. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“I’m sure, Daniel.” My voice cracked on the word sure. I cleared my throat, trying to sound stronger. “Sometimes it’s best to leave. Even if it hurts.”

He exhaled, and I could hear the disappointment even through the static. “New York is your home, Iris. You’ve built something here. You’ve got people who care about you now.”

People. Adrian and Nico. Their faces flickered in my mind like a reel of memories—their laughter, their teasing, their eyes when they looked at me like I was more than a weapon.

“I’d miss it,” I admitted quietly. “All of it. But staying would only make everything worse.”

He didn’t argue. He never did when I’d already made up my mind. “Well,” Daniel said finally, “I can only wish you luck, then.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“Don’t thank me. Just… don’t disappear completely, okay?”

The line clicked off before I could answer.

I sat there for another minute, staring at the silent phone in my hand. My reflection stared back from the dark screen—hair unbrushed, eyes hollow. A ghost already.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and left.

The streets of Manhattan were half-awake by the time I stepped outside. Cafés opening. Yellow cabs cutting through the damp morning air. People rushing somewhere with purpose. Everyone always going somewhere.

Except me, I was leaving everything. The city felt different that day—muted, almost colorless. Even the billboards seemed quieter, as if New York itself knew I was running away from it.

I kept my eyes down and walked. The weight of my bag dug into my shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the weight in my chest. At the corner, a newspaper vendor was stacking that day’s edition. The headline caught my eye: NICO MOREAU’S MYSTERIOUS MUSE—WHO IS SHE?

I turned away before the nausea hit. My throat burned.

I took the subway, transferred twice, and finally ended up at Grand Central Station. It was loud there—voices overlapping, announcements echoing, trains screeching—but it all blurred into white noise.

I dragged my suitcase to the ticket counter. The man behind the glass barely looked up.

“One ticket, please,” I said, my voice barely more than a breath.

“To where?” he asked, bored.

I paused. Where did someone like me even go? Somewhere small. Quiet and forgettable.

“Stamford,” I decided. “Connecticut.”

He printed the ticket without question. I slid cash under the glass and took the small rectangle of paper like it was both my sentence and my salvation.

I found a seat on one of the benches by the platform. The clock above me ticked past nine. I had twenty minutes until departure. Twenty minutes to change my mind. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately—notifications flooding in one after another.

Nico: “Where are you? You missed breakfast.”

Adrian: “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Nico: “If you’re ghosting us, I’m not above breaking into your office again.”

Adrian: “Please don’t make me stop him.”

A small, broken laugh slipped from me. They sounded like them.

My thumb hovered over the screen, aching to reply. To tell them everything. To say I missed you already. Instead, I powered the phone off. The screen went black.

I leaned back against the cold metal bench and closed my eyes. Memories started to spin—like a film reel, flickering behind my eyelids.

Adrian’s grin when he spilled soda all over his pants at the movie. Nico’s mock indignation when he lost Monopoly and blamed the dice. The soft hum of jazz under rooftop fairy lights. The smell of takeout sushi and cheap beer. The night they both kissed me—first Nico, quick and impulsive, then Adrian, slow and deliberate, as if testing fate.

The way my heart raced when they touched me at Steve’s party, the world disappearing into the rhythm of our breaths.

The warmth of the blanket on that same rooftop, laughter echoing into the sky. No secrets that got anyone hurt. Except that was all we became—secrets and hurt.

My chest tightened. My throat stung. I pressed the heel of my palm against my eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears from breaking free.

The sound of an approaching train filled the station—a low rumble that grew into a roar. People rose, gathering their bags, moving toward the platform. I followed them, numb, mechanical. The conductor called out, “Train to Stamford, departing in two minutes!”

I took one last look at the city beyond the glass windows. The skyline glowed faintly in the distance, washed in morning haze. This city had given me everything—pain, purpose, love I never meant to find. And then I was leaving it all behind.

When the doors slid open, I stepped inside before I could start doubting. The doors closed with a sharp hiss, and the train lurched forward.

Through the window, New York began to blur—steel and glass melting into streaks of color until it was gone. And for the first time in years, I felt utterly lost.