By lunch, I’ve convinced myself he was called into some multi-alarm, crazy fire emergency that takes days to clean up. He’s a firefighter. Emergencies happen. That’s what he said, right? Shift life is unpredictable. Maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to reply. Maybe he’s in the middle of something big. Christ, maybe he’s been injured and hospitalized.
I open Google and start typing. Maybe I’ll find out something has happened this way.
Toronto fire December 18.
GTA firefighter incident last 48 hours.
Firefighter injured Ontario December.
A few articles pop up. There was a residential fire in Brampton, a warehouse blaze near Scarborough. But no names or injuries reported. No clues that he’s been involved in a large-scale incident. I chew my thumbnail down to the quick, because I’m worried.
By the evening, I’ve reread every message we ever exchanged. Replayed his voice notes until I’ve memorized the exact cadenceof his breath, the way he saysRedlike I’m the only name that fit in his mouth. Except it’s not my name, not really.
I try to talk myself out of sending anymore messages, I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help it.
Me:Hey. Just checking in. Hope everything’s okay?
It sits there, unread. Of course it fucking does.
The next day, Ana corners me at the coffee machine.
“Alright. What’s going on?”
I try to brush her off, but she gives me a look that saysdon’t try me. So I tell her. Softly. Vulnerably. About the silence, the nothingness, how the voice I’d fallen asleep to every night for weeks just stopped speaking.
“Maybe something happened,” I say. “Maybe he got caught in a fire and—”
“Frankie.”
Her voice is gentle but firm. “Even if he’d been called out, even if he’s stuck under a literal flaming building—even firefighters havetwo secondsto send a message within the span of three days. Just one to say, ‘Hey, busy, will explain later.’ Anything. If he wanted to stop you from stressing, he would’ve.”
I nod, but the anxiety stays. At lunch, I send another message because I’m a goddamn fool with no self control.
Me:Not trying to bug you, just feeling a little anxious and hope you’re okay. If something came up, that’s okay. Just let me know you’re alright?
I don’t sleep that night, and by day five, I’m unraveling.
Every ding from my phone hits like a punch to the gut, followed by the hollow disappointment of it not being him.Every time I open the app, the voice that used to make me feel warm and excited now fills me with dread.
Ana brings me a pastry and a coffee and sits beside me in silence, quietly tapping her keyboard.
“D’you think it was something I said?” I ask eventually. “Was asking to meet up too much?”
“No,” she says softly, her fingers pausing.. “You deserve something real, babe. Not someone who runs.”
“It doesn’t feel like he ran, though… it feels like he disappeared.”
She shakes her head and turns to me. “You sent that man a message just to make sure he’s alive. If he can’t even reply to that, just to make you stop worrying, then I hope his catdoeskill him.”
A weak chuckle bubbles out of me, and I try to believe her. She’s right. I don’t care if we never meet, I just want to make sure he’s okay. If he can’t even give me that, why do I still care so much?
Everett messages me a meme later that afternoon. Something stupid about dating in the modern age, and I almost laugh. But all I can think isat least bad dates show up. At least bad dates don’t make you feel wanted before pulling the plug.
Later at home, I go back through our messages and delete every single voice note I’ve ever sent. Then I send one last message. I know I shouldn’t, but I convince myself it’s for closure and I need to do it.
I write it out three times. Soft, kind and polite. Wishing him the best and thanking him for our little snippet of time together.
Then I delete them all, and record a voice message that feels more real.
