Nothing.
I get up to check the hall. His sneakers are gone. The cap he always wears on runs, too.
I open the apartment door and call into the dark stairwell.
“Baby?”
Silence.
Normally, he waits for me. We roll out of bed, we lace up, and we go together; it’s our thing now. Him going without me makes no sense.
I sit at the table with a mug of tea, but I don’t bother drinking. I keep looking at the door, expecting it to open, but the silence stretches. My knee bounces under the table. I keep thinking of how upset he looked when I came home yesterday, how sorrowful he was when he spoke. He’s had a few bad days during the time I’ve lived here, and usually, he just asks me to hold him through it. That’s what I did last night, but now I’m wondering if I should have done more.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
Thirty.
I check my phone. It’s been close to an hour since I woke up. An hour of him out there alone.
I pick up my phone and call him. It rings, and I hear his phone buzzing. He’s left it here.Fuck. A spike of panic shoots through me.
What if something happened to him?
Maybe he just needed to clear his head, it’s happened before… not for a long while now, though. I can’t sit still. I stand, sit again, pace the kitchen. Go to the window, stare down at the empty street. Every sound makes my head jerk up—the rumble of a garbage truck, a car door slamming, the neighbor’s dog.
But it’s nothim.
Should I call Aiden? I don’t want to worry him, though. But what if weshouldbe worried?
I think about grabbing my sneakers and going out to find him, but what if he comes back while I’m gone? What if he needs me here? The idea of missing him by minutes makes me feel sick.
So, I stay.
Waiting.
My mind keeps throwing up pictures I don’t want. Gabe tripping on the trail, lying wounded with no one there. Gabe lost in his head, shutting down, alone. Gabe not coming back at all.
The more I try to shove them away, the worse they get. I rub a hand over my chest, but it doesn’t ease anything. I think about the mornings we run together. How he always starts stiff and loosens as we go. How he pushes himself harder than he should, like pain is the point. How he glances my way, like he’s checking I’m still there. I know it matters that I am.
The thought of him out there without me, for whatever reason he went alone, feels like I’ve failed him somehow. I keep circling the same fear. What if he doesn’t come back?
I stare at the door until my eyes sting. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the door swings open. I’m already on my feet, the scrape of the latch snapping through me like a whip.
And then he’s there.
He fills the doorway, but doesn’t look like himself. His hoodie is wet, plastered to his chest. Mud streaks his calves, dried in dark smears up his legs. His hair drips, strands stuck to his forehead. Water runs from his sleeves, spotting the floor in uneven drops.
His skin and lips are pale. His hands shaking at his sides.
For a second, I can’t move. The sight of him lodges in my throat, a lump that swells and won’t go down. He looks awful, like he’s gone to hell and back.
His eyes find mine.
When he finally speaks, it’s a croak. Relief, ache, and a plea—all crammed into one small but meaningful word.
“Blue.”
