Eight words.
I’m sorry. I just need some time.
My breath leaves my body. My vision tunnels.
I read it again, like the second time will reveal hidden lines that explain this better.
It doesn’t.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
What does this mean? What’s bothering her so much that she couldn’t tell me?
And what doesneed some timemean?
Does she want to break up?
I turn and head up the stairs.
My footsteps are heavy, too loud in the quiet house.
My—no,our—bedroom door is slightly open, and for a split second I expect to see her sitting on the bed, waiting.
But the room is empty.
I cross the room and go straight to the closet.
Empty.
The hangers are there, but the clothes are gone.
I open the dresser.
The top drawer where she kept her socks and underwear is empty.
The second drawer, empty.
The third, empty.
I stand there for a second too long, staring at the empty drawers like my brain refuses to update to the new reality.
Then panic slams into me. Sharp and immediate.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and hit her number.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Then voicemail.
“Tal,” I say into the phone, voice low and controlled because I don’t know what else to do. “Pick up. Call me back.”
I hang up and immediately text her.
Me:
