I’m back. I brought your muffin.
Where are you, baby?
I wait.
Then I notice that beneath the text, a red exclamation mark appears—Not Delivered.
My stomach churns.
I try calling once. The call doesn’t even ring—goes straight to voicemail.
I try again.
Nothing.
A third time.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I could leave a message. But what would I say? That I’m sorry? That I understand? I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know how to beg without unraveling, and if I unravel, she’ll stay away for good.
I open the clone. No incoming calls. No outgoing messages. No background app activity.
It’s not dead—it’s been powered off. Intentionally.
The distinction slices through me like a blade.
It feels like the ground beneath me is shifting. All that composure I’ve prided myself on fractures like glass. My lungs seize.
I stand abruptly and stalk back to the bedroom, where I tear through her side of the closet. A jacket’s missing. So is her worn duffel—the one she used to keep at her dorm. Her laptop isn’t on the desk. Her charger’s gone. Her hairbrush, her skincare pouch, that soft green T-shirt she always wears after a shower—all missing.
She took enough to stay away. Not permanently, but long enough.
I sit on the bed, then immediately stand again. I can’t sit still. Every corner of this apartment feels wrong without her in it—like the walls are bearing witness to my failure.
She was still here this morning.
I pace the hallway, the dining area, the kitchen. I open the fridge and close it again. I go back to the couch. Sit. Stand. Sit again. I look at my phone. No new notifications.
I go to text her again.
Please tell me you’re okay.
Then I delete it.
She’s said she needed space before, and she’s always come back…I say it to comfort myself, but the words feel hollow.
I circle the living room with my phone clenched in my hand like a weapon I don’t know how to wield. I check the clone again. Refresh. Refresh. Nothing.
It feels personal now. She’shidingfrom me.
I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over Carolyn’s name. She’d know something. If Olivia reached out to someone, it’d be her. But the thought of that conversation—the inevitability of her judgment—makes my stomach twist.
She’d tell Olivia I called.
That would drive the wedge deeper.
I’ll lose her for good.
My jaw tightens.
