I unlock the door and push it open, bracing for impact.
Silence greets me. Complete, total, unnerving silence.
I step inside cautiously, like I'm entering unfamiliar territory. "Liana?"
Nothing. No response, no sound of movement, no indication that anyone else is here or has been here recently.
The apartment is exactly as I left it this morning—every piece of furniture in its designated place, no cats weaving between the furniture, no smell of burning food wafting from the kitchen. No sign of her at all, no evidence of the tornado of chaos I'd been expecting.
I walk through the living room slowly, my eyes scanning every surface for changes. The kitchen looks untouched, the counters bare and clean. Everything is exactly where it should be, and that wrongness I felt earlier intensifies into something close to dread.
Did she even come? The question hangs in the air as I head toward my bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the too-quiet space.
I open the closet. Her garment bag is gone. The expensive designer piece that was hanging among my suits just this morning has vanished completely.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where it hung, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Then I turn and walk to the bathroom, already knowing what I'm going to find but needing to confirm it anyway.
The counter that was covered in her products just yesterday—the creams and serums and mysterious bottles I complained about—is completely clear. All of it is gone, every single item removed as thoroughly as if they never existed.
The drawers I complained about being full of her things? Empty now. My drawers again, just like they were before she entered my life.
I open the cabinet under the sink, the one where she claimed space for her hair tools and styling products. Empty. Nothing but the cleaning supplies that were there before.
She took everything. Every single trace of her presence in my apartment has been systematically erased, removed with a thoroughness that feels almost surgical.
I walk back to the living room, looking around with new eyes and growing comprehension. No laptop abandoned on the coffee table. No oversized tote bag dropped carelessly by the door.
Nothing. It's like she was never here at all, like the past few days were something I imagined.
I should be relieved, shouldn't I? This is what I wanted—my space back, my apartment restored to the way it was before she invaded it with her chaos and her products and her presence.
But instead, something feels wrong.
I pull out my phone and text her, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
Me: Is something wrong?
The message delivers successfully. I watch it, waiting for those three dots to appear that would indicate she's typing a response. But her read receipts are off. When the hell did she turn those off? I can't tell if she's even seen it.
I wait five minutes, watching my phone like it might suddenly come to life. Nothing appears on the screen.
Me: Are you mad at me?
Still nothing. The silence from her end is deafening, more telling than any angry text could be.
Me: Liana, answer me.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty. I count them, checking my phone obsessively even though I know it hasn't made a sound. Finally, I can't take it anymore and I call her.
It rings four times—I count each one—and then goes to voicemail. Her recorded voice fills my ear, bright and cheerful as always.
"This is Liana! Sorry I missed you! Leave a message!"
The enthusiastic woman on the recording sounds nothing like the person who texted me this morning, nothing like the flat, emotionless words on my screen.
I don't leave a message. What would I even say?
I call again immediately. Straight to voicemail this time, which means she saw my first call and deliberately declined the second.
