Skyla once left a note on my refrigerator reminding me that coffee wasn’t breakfast. It was all I had left of my broke girlfriend after she disappeared for five days, unaware that the serious illness I’d confessed to was a lie designed to test her loyalty. When she finally returned and placed something before me, I covered my face and cried like a child.
The first time Skyla watched me throw away a coffee machine, she thought I’d lost my mind.
“It stopped working,” I explained.
“Did you try cleaning it?”
“I bought another one.”
She glanced at the replacement sitting on my counter.
“Archie, the old one probably just needed descaling.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Clearly.”
She brought the discarded machine home.
Two days later, she sent me a picture showing it working perfectly.
FIXED. COST: $4.
I burst out laughing.
That was Skyla.
At twenty-four, she was finishing college while working evening shifts at a restaurant.
Her car made an awful sound whenever she turned left. Her laptop needed several minutes to start, and she bought secondhand textbooks while budgeting carefully for groceries after paying rent.
Meanwhile, I ran a successful business and came from a wealthy family where checking prices was practically unheard of.
We’d been together for nearly two years.
Whenever I offered to cover her tuition, Skyla declined.
“I need to know I can do this myself,” she’d say.
My parents interpreted things differently.
One Sunday, Mom questioned whether Skyla understood our family’s wealth.
“She’s met you, Mom,” I said. “She knows you’re comfortable.”
“That’s not what I asked, Archie.”
Dad expressed his concerns more openly.
“Be careful. Some people know how to wait until you’ve let your guard down.”
My friends shared similar suspicions.
One had recently endured a bitter breakup and insisted his former girlfriend had stayed because of his lifestyle.
“Your girlfriend’s broke, Archie. You’re telling me she doesn’t see an opportunity?”
Initially, I defended Skyla.
Eventually, though, their warnings began influencing my thoughts.
She’d never requested money.
Was that because she genuinely didn’t want it?
Or had she figured out that asking would make me suspicious?
Once those doubts appeared, I started questioning ordinary gestures.
When she prepared dinner at my apartment, I wondered whether she was trying to impress me.
When she remembered an important meeting, I questioned whether she was deliberately keeping me happy.
One evening, she arrived carrying her unreliable laptop. Its screen flickered whenever she moved it.
“Let me buy you a new one,” I said.
“No, thanks. I’ve got a repair appointment.”
“Skyla, I can afford it.”
“It’s okay, baby.”
“Then why won’t you let me?”
She raised her eyes.
“Because I can handle this.”
I should’ve respected her answer.
Instead, my father’s warning echoed through my mind.
A week later, I devised the worst plan of my life.
I decided to test her.
I convinced myself that discovering whether she’d stay if I had nothing left to offer was necessary.
Before she arrived, I practiced my lie inside my car.
The moment Skyla entered my kitchen, she noticed my expression.
“Archie? Baby, what happened?”
I lowered myself into a chair.
“I got some medical results.”
She dropped her bag.
“What kind of results?”
“I have a serious illness.”
She froze.
“What?”
“The doctors say I need treatment. Soon. Or else…”
She pulled a chair beside me.
“Which doctor? What exactly did they find?”
“I don’t have all the answers yet. I need another appointment before they’ll explain the treatment plan.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” She reached for my hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
Then I delivered the next part of my story.
“The treatment is expensive. More than I can afford.”
She frowned.
“But you have insurance.”
“It won’t cover enough.”
“What about your parents?”
“They can’t help this time.”
I mentioned an enormous amount, knowing she couldn’t possibly raise it.
She repeated the figure.
“That much?”
I nodded.
After several seconds of silence, she asked, “How much time do we have to find it?”
I’d expected questions about whether I still had money.
Instead, she wanted to know our deadline.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She took out her phone.
“Then we need to find out.”
Over the next two days, Skyla worked almost constantly.
She researched treatment centers, financial assistance programs, payment arrangements, and second opinions.
Between classes, she’d call me.
“Can you send me the doctor’s name?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I’m overwhelmed, Skyla.”
“Then let me help with the calls.”
I claimed I’d already exhausted every possibility.