Had something happened to him? War? Age?
Or did Nick just… let him go? The thought felt heavier than it should have. But maybe that’s because I knew something about letting go. About losing parts of yourself and pretending you hadn’t.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and headed downstairs. The house was small—maybe twelve hundred square feet at best—but the layout made it feel open. Lofted bedroom, big windows, clean lines. A quiet that felt intentional, like whoever lived here didn’t mind being alone.
Outside, the crisp morning air slapped against my skin. It smelled like pine and wet earth. Loco waddled to the grass and squatted—not even bothering to lift his leg, as usual. Hence the name. Loco. A little off, just like me.
I wrapped my arms around my waist, the chill creeping into my bones. It was colder and sharper than I was used to, making the air harder to breathe. Abigail said it got worse in January. If I stayed, I’d have to adjust to a lot of things.
Rounding the corner, I spotted Nick’s truck near the mailbox. Blankets and a couple of pillows in the backseat—but no Nick. I scanned the yard and the windows. Nothing. He wasn’t here.
Was he out running? At the gym? Avoiding me?
The thought lodged in my throat, bitter and sharp. Back inside,I climbed the stairs and grabbed my phone. 10:45 a.m. Late. Too late. I needed to get back to the lakehouse. Shower. Reset. Pretend I had control over any part of this day.
Abigail wanted to hang out later—Josh was back in town for Thanksgiving. He was doing exactly what he said he would. Medical school. Becoming a gynecologist. Because, of course. Josh always knew what he wanted.
I was happy for them. I was. But that happiness came with an aftertaste—like swallowing sugar and feeling it rot your teeth from the inside out. They were building futures while I was just… drifting.
I’d lied to myself about last night. Said the drinks were harmless. Said I needed to let loose. But the truth was, I drank to quiet the buzzing in my head. The anxiety of not knowing what came next. The guilt that came from slipping up with my diabetes. The ache of missing something I couldn’t name—something I’d once had, maybe, before acting chewed me up and spit me out.
I used to dream big. Chase roles. Lights. Lines.
Now I was chasing distractions. And even those weren’t working anymore.
I looked out the window again, hoping to see Nick. Part of me needed him to be here—needed something solid to hold onto. But the driveway stayed empty. Quiet. Distant.
I was getting good at pretending this was fine. But some part of me—buried deep—was screaming for more as the memory of that day came rushing through me, bringing with it a ball of emotions.
I’d beenin this office a hundred times before, but today the air felt heavier, like it knew what was coming. My whole future hung in the balance, strung tight with hope and blind trust. If the director gave me the lead, everything would change. I’d practiced the lines repeatedly, imagined myself as Dorothy, and even heard my mom’s voice say, “We’ll just have to dye your hair brown, baby.”
The door creaked open.
Mr. Potter stepped out with his usual grin, all teeth and charm. That smile had never scared me before, but now it made something inside me shrink.
“Hi Melanie, are you ready for your audition?”
I nodded. My heart fluttered too fast, like a bird stuck inside a cage. I didn’t know why I felt nervous. It was just Mr. Potter—my mom’s friend. I knew the lines by heart. I could do this.
“You’ll do great, sweetie. Smile your pretty smile, and you’re bound to win him over.”
My mom’s voice echoed through me, a fragile comfort. The nerves in my stomach began to settle.
“Good luck,” she said, guiding me to his door. Her hand lingered a little longer than usual on my back.
“Please help yourself to the snacks and refreshments downstairs. I will bring her down when we are through.”
We.
Something sharp and small pressed in behind my ribs. Why would he say we? Is he playing the male lead? I looked at my mom. For a second, something flickered across her face—worry? Fear? But then it was gone.
“Great, thank you,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Knock ‘em dead, baby,” were her last words before Mr. Potter took me by the hand, leading me down the hall, backstage, into the office.
The door clicked shut behind us.
“Mr. Potter, are you ready for me to perform now?”
