Two days passed. Then three. Then a week.
Tristan still hadn't received a single message from me. Several times a day, he would glance at my empty desk. It stayed empty.
He finally couldn't stand it. For the first time in six years, he picked up his phone and called me without any work excuse. The line just rang.
His patience snapped. In the middle of a workday, he broke his own rules and went to my apartment. He punched in the code. It came back wrong, again and again. He started knocking, his voice low and tight. "Marina, I know you're in there. Open the door. It's been a week. What's the point of this?"
No one came to the door.
Then a neighbor passed by. "Stop banging. The tenant already moved out."
Something in his head went hollow.
I had moved out?
Where could I have possibly
