The plane dipped—soft, like a sigh—and Ashlyn's stomach lurched. She curled tighter into the window seat, hoodie hood up, knees to chest. The cabin lights were dim, blue, almost sick. Outside, nothing. Just black. Lagos was gone. The city that raised her, lied to her, spat her out—gone.
She didn't cry loud. Not at first. Just… leaked. Tears sliding slow, thick, like they'd been waiting years to come out. They hit her chin, dripped onto her sleeve. She didn't wipe them. Let them sit. Let them burn. Like punishment.
The guy next to her—gold chain, Rolex, snoring—didn't notice. She hated him for that. Hated everyone.
And then—the memory crawled in. Not fast. Not clean. Like oil spreading over water.
Seven days ago.
She'd come back from the club—heels in one hand, dress sticking to her thighs, hair matted from sweat and smoke. The music still rang in her ears—"Dynamite", the beat still bouncing in her chest. She loved that song. Loved how it made her feel light. Like she could be anyone. Like she could be happy.
She was climbing the stairs—still humming the lyrics—when she heard them.
Tiffany's voice—light, lazy, like she was scrolling Instagram. "Ah-ah, that girl… she thinks she's going anywhere? I already fixed it. Deleted her name. Typed mine. They think it's me now. Easy."
Mrs. Okoro laughed—low, smug, the laugh she used when people said she looked young. "Ehn, perfect. She won't suspect. We'll just tell her, 'Sorry o, you didn't make it.' She'll swallow it. She always swallows everything. Like a good girl."
Mr. Okoro grunted—voice thick, bored. "Orphan. Useless. We only kept her because you said you wanted a sister. A playmate. Now you're going abroad. She's done. We'll send her back where we found her—street corner, crying like a lost goat."
Tiffany snorted. "She'll cry. She'll beg. But who cares? She's not ours. We picked her up—dirty, hungry, no name. We gave her clothes, school, food. And now? We're tired. Time to clean up."
Ashlyn froze. Barefoot. Dress rumpled. Heart slamming so hard she tasted metal.
The words didn't just land—they exploded. Tiffany—her best friend. The one who'd braided her hair. The one who'd slept over. The one who'd said "I got you" when boys broke her heart. All of it—fake.
She didn't scream. Didn't throw anything. Just… turned. Quiet. Slipped down the stairs. Out the door. Stood in the driveway until the night wind dried her skin.
Then she went inside. Locked her room. And shattered.
She slid down the door—back against wood—legs buckling. The first sob tore out—raw, animal—like someone had punched through her ribs. She pressed her face into her knees, mouth open, no sound at first—just air, just pain. Then it came. Loud. Ugly. She screamed into her arms. Punched the floor. Clawed at her hair.
She cried like she was dying. Like the girl she'd been—Felicia, the one who trusted—had just been ripped away. She cried for the nights she'd stayed up texting Tiffany "I love you." For the way she'd smiled when Tiffany said "you're my sister." For the way she'd danced in the club—like she was free—when she'd never been.
She cried until her throat cracked. Until her eyes swelled shut. Until snot ran down her face and she didn't care. Until she tasted blood from biting her lip. Until her whole body shook—like she was having a seizure.
And in between—whispers. "Why me?" "Who am I?" "If I'm not theirs… then who?"
She looked up—saw Jimin's photocard taped to the mirror. Smiling. Perfect. Like he'd never lie. She ripped it off. Held it. Then pressed it to her chest—like it was the only real thing left.
She didn't leave that night.
She waited.
Played dumb.
Monday—she told them the car had an accident. "Some okada guy hit me. Sold it—insurance won't pay." Mrs. Okoro sighed. "Ehn, be careful."
Tuesday—she said she got scammed. "He promised to invest my allowance. Took everything." Tiffany laughed. "You're too trusting."
Wednesday—she sold the bags. Said she "lost" them. "Someone snatched my purse." Mrs. Okoro rolled her eyes. "Stop clubbing."
Thursday—she sold the jewelry. Said she "loaned" it. "Friend needed cash." Tiffany smirked. "Too soft."
Friday—she booked Seoul. One-way. Used her own money—birthday cash, Christmas envelopes.
Saturday—she packed. Backpack. Clothes. Phone. Notebook. Jimin's photocard—folded, tucked inside.
Sunday—she left. Walked out like she was going to get braids. No goodbye.
Now—on the plane—she let the last tear fall. Didn't wipe it.
She wasn't crying because she was weak.
She was crying because Tiffany—her Tiffany—had stabbed her.
And because she still loved her.
Then her phone buzzed. One last time.
News alert. Punch.
She glanced—just once.
"Socialite Family: 'Our Adopted Daughter Was Jealous, Ungrateful—We Treated Her Like Our Own'"
A photo: them smiling. Tiffany in the middle. No mention of blood. No mention of secrets. Just "sisters." Just "love." Just her—running away.
She didn't read more. Didn't need to.
She powered it off. Tossed it under the seat.
They could spin whatever they wanted. Call her ungrateful. Call her jealous. Call her the villain who broke their hearts.
She didn't care.
If they didn't want her—she didn't want them.
Felicia was dead. Built on their lies. Built on their pity.
She canceled her.
From now on—just Ashlyn.
No last name. No past. No weak girl crying in a mansion.
Just Ashlyn.
And she was flying.
The cabin lights dimmed. The engines purred.
She closed her eyes.
Then— she put her hands in her pocket and brought out...
The photocard. Jimin's smile.
She pulled it out—slow, like it might bite.
The back wasn't blank anymore.
Someone had written, in tiny black ink:
"Welcome home, Ashlyn."
She stared.
Who knew? Who cared enough to write it?
The plane kept going.
But now—she wasn't sure if Seoul was the end.
Or just the beginning.