Wrong Name
Sia’s POV
His fingers curled around my hips like they used to. Like nothing had changed. Like the baby buried inside me wasn’t his secret ticking between us. Like we weren’t at the edge of what we once cherished.
The room was quiet except for the sound of breath, soft moans and something else—something I hadn’t felt in months: hope.
His lips found my neck, and for a second, I let myself believe. Maybe this was it. The fix. The miracle night. The one where we pull ourselves back from the edge before lawyers and signatures and “Who gets the baby on weekends?”.
My head tilted back, not out of passion, but out of need. My eyes shut, and for one small, selfish second, I let myself want him.
“God, Clarissa…” He moaned.
Clarissa?
That name slammed into the room like a wrecking ball.
He went still, like he could unsay it, unspeak it, take it back with silence.
But it was done.
I pushed at his chest, hard.
“Wait—babe, just—no, that wasn’t—”
“Get off me.”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“I f*****g heard you, Dylan.”
He didn’t move fast enough, so I pushed harder. I shoved him off like he was something I needed to peel off my skin. I sat up, yanked the sheets around me even though it was pointless. Everything felt exposed already.
“I was thinking about work,” he said, breathless, his voice shaking. “I just—It slipped out.”
I laughed. That dry, broken laugh you make when something rips. When you’ve been holding it in for too long and then it all falls out.
“She’s your secretary.”
“No—yes, but it’s not what you—”
“She’s your secretary, and you moaned her name inside me.”
His mouth opened and closed, but there was not a word from him. His hands twitched like he didn’t know whether to reach for me or cover himself.
I picked up my dress which lay crumpled on the floor, a silent witness to the tears I was fighting to hold back.
I also picked my phone, keys, my bag and the ultrasound photo I’d hidden inside it and then I stormed out of the hotel room.
He knew nothing about the child yet— And maybe he never will.
I walked out without looking back. Without waiting for him to call my name or beg me to stay.
Dylan and I used to be that couple—the kind people whispered about, smiled at, envied.
But somewhere along the way, we dimmed.
I didn’t even notice at first. I kept waiting for things to go back to how they were. I prayed fervently that we would never reach this desolate point, but my prayers fell silent.
Each memory I revisited only deepened the ache within me, revealing the painful truth: perhaps I had ignored the warning signs, the red flags that waved frantically in front of my blind devotion.
I sacrificed everything— love, loyalty, support, for a connection that slipped through my fingers like sand, leaving me with nothing but the bitter taste of longing and regret.
I held on too tight to a man who was already halfway gone.
Now, within the four walls of our bedroom—no, my bedroom. I feel the weight of solitude pressing down on me. For more than half the years we shared, he was never truly present.
Imagine yearning for the embrace of a man who is supposed to be yours, yet feeling his absence like a gaping wound. Excuses piled up like debris: “I have a project,” “I have a meeting,” each one consuming the moments that should have been filled with laughter and connection.
He was barely there—
I was nothing more than a stepping stone in his ascent, a name on his list of achievements, nothing more than someone he needed to climb higher.
My fingers tightened around the pen, holding onto it like it was the only thing keeping me intact.
I was just a pit stop. A safe space. A box to check on his way to whatever future he built without me in it.
I sat at the desk, staring at the divorce papers. My hand trembled a little, but not from fear.
I picked up the pen like it weighed a hundred pounds, like signing that paper would c***k something in me that might never heal.
And maybe it did.
But I signed anyway.
I looked down at what I had done, but no tears fell.
I’d cried enough.
I picked up the suitcase I had packed the night before. Walked past the helpers who watched me with sad, curious eyes but said nothing. They knew. Everyone knew.
I stood in the bustling airport, the chaos of travellers rushing by, each with their own stories and destinations. The scent of coffee and the distant sound of announcements filled the air, grounding me in the moment.
And then, came the voice over the loudspeaker, cutting through the noise:
“Attention passengers. Flight 237 to Atlanta, Georgia is now boarding at Gate 12…”
The words echoed in my mind, a call to leave everything behind. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my past lift slightly as I stepped forward, ready to embrace life without Dylan— life as a single mother.
