I open our thread anyway, scrolling through old messages. His last picture—the one he sent from the truck—still makes me smile. The way he holds the camera too low, jaw shadowed, the world behind him a blur of motion.Made it to Nashville.
He looks tired in it. I didn’t notice before.
My chest tightens, and I drop the phone onto the counter like distance might shrink if I stop holding it so hard.
The storm outside has moved on, but the wind still pushes against the windows. The lantern beam sweeps across the room, throwing soft light over the books, the plants, the cup he left half-drunk on the windowsill two days ago.
I trace a finger over the rim, then close my eyes.
“Don’t let them make you smaller,” I whisper, the words tasting like prayer.
The floor creaks. For a heartbeat, I think it’s him—stupid, hopeful instinct. It’s just the building settling. Or maybe it’s me.
The following morning, I wake early, the air heavy and still. The ocean’s calm again, that eerie hush after a storm. I make coffee, feed the cat, and watch the first light hit the water through the kitchen window.
He should’ve texted by now.
I tell myself maybe his phone died. Maybe he overslept. Maybe the meeting ran late. But each maybe sounds thinner than the last.
By eight, I’ve checked the news, the team page, his fan accounts—nothing unusual. Just recycled interviews, oldhighlight clips. The digital version of pretending everything’s fine.
When I unlock the shop, Rowan’s already outside with a box of donated books balanced on his hip. “Morning, sunshine,” he says. “You look like you fought a ghost and lost.”
“Coffee hasn’t worked yet,” I say, opening the door.
He follows me in, setting the box on the counter. “You good?”
“Fine.”
He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it. “You sure? I can threaten someone on your behalf. I’m versatile.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He grins. “You always do.”
When he leaves, I stand behind the counter, hands pressed flat to the wood. The grain feels like a heartbeat under my palms. I wonder if that’s how Crew felt—trying to steady something that won’t stop moving.
By noon, the bookstore fills with the quiet chatter of regulars. Mrs. Landry drops off her weekly cookie bribe. A kid from the high school asks for something “that doesn’t suck” for his lit class. I find himThe Outsidersand tell him it’s about staying gold. He shrugs but smiles.
Normal. I can do normal.
Until I can’t.
Because when the shop finally empties and I’m alone again, the quiet presses in harder than before. My phone buzzes once—my heart stutters—but it’s just a weather alert.
And that’s when the fear shifts into something else. Not panic. Not yet. Just that low, humming certainty that something isn’t right.
I pick up my phone again and type.Just checking in. How’d the meeting go?
I delete it. Type again.Miss your face. Also, your favorite kid broke the display shelf.Delete that, too.
Finally, I send a single word.Home?
The message hangs in the air, blue bubble glowing like a promise I don’t believe.
The dots appear for half a second—then vanish.
I stare at the screen until it goes black.
