WILLIAMS HAROLD RODRIGUEZ
I woke up with a dull ache in my chest and the lingering bitterness of disappointment hanging heavy in the air.
The dining table was still set.
Two plates. Two wine glasses. The candles had burned down to stubs, and the roses I’d placed in the center had begun to wilt just slightly, their once-crisp petals curling inwards like they too had lost hope.
Kaia hadn’t shown up.
No call. No text. Nothing.
I had waited—watched the time crawl past minute by minute, telling myself she was just running late, that maybe she’d gotten caught up at work, or maybe her phone had died. I even convinced myself at one point that she'd show up with that apologetic smile of hers, and I would pretend like none of it mattered.
But the clock had struck midnight. And then one.
And
