I wake up in the afternoon.
Not because I’m lazy. Because my body gave up somewhere between crying and not crying and decided sleep was the only thing left it could do for me.
The light in the apartment is wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. It hits the walls like it doesn’t know me yet.
I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, then turn my head and see my luggage sitting by the door. Still zipped. Still untouched. Like I might leave again any second.
Maybe I already have.
My phone is on the floor where I dropped it last night. Face down. I don’t want to pick it up. I already know what’s waiting.
Eventually, I do.
It’s worse than I imagined.
Missed calls from Ethan. Too many to count. Messages stacked on top of each other, some long, some just “Please” and “Solene” and “Talk to me
