Darren
I walked into the penthous and let the front door slam shut behind me, the sound echoing through the empty rooms. Midnight had already gnawed at the edges of the day, and the half-moon seeped through the kitchen curtains, painting the linoleum in slanted silver.
Half a month. Fourteen days and thirteen nights of f*****g hotel sheets that reeked of human and bleach, of Leila's voice looping in my head like a broken record. Be careful. Come back to me.
I'd come back. But she wasn't here.
The feeling had started at dawn—a twist in my gut, sharp as a shard of glass. It had coiled tighter as the hours wore on, until by noon it felt like I was swallowing barbed wire. I'd dialed her number until my thumb ached, each ringtone a mocking buzz in my ear. Voicemail again. Leave a message. I
