By late afternoon, I try calling Phantom. Once. Twice. Three times. Each ring stretches like a blade across silence, cutting deeper when no answer comes. My pulse thrums, uneven, tethered to a voice that refuses to break through. Shadows curl at the edges of my thoughts, whispering possibilities I don’t want to name. Breath catches in my throat, fragile, as if the air itself resists filling my lungs. I tell myself he’s busy, that Rome emergencies can’t wait. But the quiet on the other end feels heavier each moment I don’t hear from him.
I toss my phone onto the bed, muttering, “Fine. Ignore me. I’ll just host a supernatural dinner party and not overthink about you.” The sarcasm doesn’t soothe the ache, but it makes me laugh, and laughter is better than panic. The sound echoes in the empt
