The door slammed shut, the reverberation echoing through the silent house like a gavel's strike. Elliot flinched, staring at the empty doorway where Lila had been just moments ago. She had stepped back inside briefly.
"Lila, I…"
Lila wasn't in the mood to listen. She snatched her car keys from the counter, her expression a mix of fury and heartbreak. After that he hadn't said a word— He realized that at that time he didn't know what to say to remedy the situation. Now she was gone, leaving him alone amidst the remnants of their argument.
Guilt crept in, slow and suffocating, like the darkness seeping through the windows. The room seemed colder without her warmth, the silence heavier. Elliot paced the living room, replaying their fight over and over in his mind. His words had been too harsh, his tone too dismissive. Why couldn't he have stopped to listen, to understand?
Minutes stretched into hours, and the city outside grew quieter. Elliot tried to distract himself, but every attempt only brought him back to the empty chair Lila had occupied, to the flyer still crumpled on the coffee table. He stared at it, his chest tightening. He wanted to call her, to say he was sorry, to tell her he cared—even if he didn't understand her cause.
But pride and hesitation kept him rooted. He thought she just needed time to cool off. She always came back. They always found their way back to each other.
It wasn't until the clock struck midnight that worry began to override his rationalizations. Lila never stayed out this late without a word. He grabbed his phone, scrolling through their messages. The last one was mundane, a grocery list she'd sent earlier that afternoon. He opened a blank message, his thumbs hesitating over the keyboard.
"I'm sorry," he typed. Then, after a moment, "Please come home."
He was about to hit send when his phone buzzed. Relief flooded him, assuming it was Lila, but the message that appeared froze him in place.
It wasn't from her.
The text came from an unknown number, stark and direct: "Lila has been in a terrible accident."
Elliot's heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers trembled as he reread the words, hoping he had misread them. He dialed the number, his mind racing, but a mechanical voice informed him it was unavailable.
Panic surged through him. He grabbed his coat and keys, leaving the house in a frenzy. He barely remembered driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he sped to the nearest hospital, praying this was some cruel mistake.
When he arrived, the fluorescent lights of the ER felt harsh, sterile. He rushed to the front desk, stumbling over his words as he asked for Lila. The nurse's expression told him everything before she even spoke.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Braggart," she said softly. "The paramedics were too late."
Elliot's legs threatened to give out. "No," he whispered. "No, she can't be—" His voice broke, and he gripped the counter for support.
The nurse continued, her tone gentle but clinical. "The accident was severe. She didn't suffer. Her spirit was already…on the other side when they arrived."
"Her spirit…"
The words hit him like a physical blow. He staggered back, shaking his head in denial. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. He had to see her, to hold her hand, to tell her he was sorry.
But when they led him to the room where she lay, all the hope in the world couldn't change the reality before him. Lila's body was still, her face pale but peaceful, as if she were simply asleep. The guilt that had been creeping in earlier now crashed over him like a tidal wave.
He sank into the chair beside her, gripping her lifeless hand. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his tears falling freely. "I'm so sorry, Lila. I didn't mean it."
The room was quiet except for his sobs, the weight of his regrets suffocating him. He thought of all the things he should have said, all the fights that suddenly seemed so meaningless. The last words they had shared replayed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Elliot stayed there for hours, unable to let go, until the hospital staff gently ushered him out. As he walked back to his car, the city felt different—emptier, colder, as if it too mourned her loss.
That night, alone in their home, Elliot sat in the living room, staring at the flyer on the coffee table. The crumpled paper seemed to mock him, a reminder of what he had dismissed so easily. He picked it up, smoothing the edges with trembling hands.
For the first time, he saw it not as a frivolous cause, but as a piece of Lila—her passion, her heart, her unwavering belief in making the world a better place.
And for the first time in his life, Elliot felt something he couldn't rationalize: a desperate need to honor her memory, to make amends for what could never be undone.