My boots crunch through gravel as I start walking.
The woods loom ahead — dark, patient, familiar.
I slip into them like they’re an old coat.
Her house glows in the distance — warm, golden, perfect, too big for the life she pretends to have.
One window on the second floor is still lit.
Her room.
Her shadow moves once behind the curtains.
My breath leaves me slow and controlled.
“There you are,” I murmur into the cold, the words fogging in front of me. “My fucking liar.”
My hands flex at my sides.
“She’s waiting for me,” I tell the trees. “She doesn’t know it yet. But she is.”
I take one more step toward the house.
Then another.
Then—
A thought hits me, vicious and electric.
She’s drunk.
She’s unraveling.
She’s alone.
She left me a voicemail.
I left her one back.
But I didn’t see her hear it.
And the idea that she might have collapsed on that perfect white sofa with my voice playing in her ear?
That she might have cried with my name on her lips?
That she might have whispered come back with no one to hear it but the walls?
It hits me like a fist under my ribs.
My heartbeat spikes.
My breath stutters.
I swallow hard.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “I should’ve been there to watch.”
The wind howls through the branches like agreement.
