Iggy didn’t turnup for work.
When I walked into the lobby, already ten minutes late, Clara was going postal. At first, I thought it was because of me. That I was the last one down. Turns out, I was the least of her worries.
After my fight with Iggy earlier that day, I’d locked myself in my room. Riff had tried to talk to me, knocking, calling, asking if things were okay. If we’d worked it out. I wasn’t in the mood to admit that things had only spiralled further, so I’d taken the coward’s route and pretended to be asleep. Ignored his calls and the knocks. Squeezed my eyes shut and hoped that if I begged my brain hard enough, sleep would come.
It did.
Hard enough that I slept straight through my “you’re going to be fucking late” alarm and staggered into the lobby convinced I’d be the last one there.
Except I hadn’t. Because Iggy wasn’t there.
“Where is Iggy?” Clara demanded the second I joined the group.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m not his keeper.”
The words came out sharper than I meant them to, and thelooks I got told me as much. Confusion, concern, a little surprise. I guessed they had a right to it. We’d been inseparable for weeks, even before everyone knew about us.
Clara studied me for a beat, then sighed. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, I’ve tried calling him. He’s not answering. I don’t know where the fuck he is.”
“Has anyone been to his room?” Riff asked, his eyes flicking to me and away again.
“No—”
“I’ll go,” I said, cutting her off.
Clara nodded immediately. “Okay. I’ll let Dylan know we’re running late.”
I turned for the elevator before anyone could say anything else.
By the time I reached Iggy’s floor, my chest felt tight. I knocked once, then again. Then a third time, louder, calling his name. The silence on the other side of the door stretched too long, settling heavy in my gut.
This morning, when I’d left him, he hadn’t been okay. Not even close. And as much as I tried to rationalise it, a part of me knew I shouldn’t have left him alone.
But I hadn’t had a choice.
If I wasn’t in recovery myself, the thought might never have crossed my mind. But his spiral had started tugging at mine, waking up urges I’d worked too damn hard to quiet. As much as I loved him, I had to put myself first. When it came to sobriety, that wasn’t negotiable. If the roles were reversed, I’d want Iggy to do the same.
I hoped he understood that. Hoped he could, eventually.
But standing here now, staring at a closed door and an unanswered phone, hope didn’t do much to steady me.
Maybe he was ignoring me. Maybe he needed space, time tocool off. To breathe without me hovering over him and poking at wounds he wasn’t ready to face.
Or maybe it was something worse. Something dangerous.
My hand hovered over the handle, heart pounding, dread curling tight in my chest as one thought eclipsed all the others.
If he was high in there right now...
What the fuck was I supposed to do?
I’d spent so long lost in my own head, running through every possible outcome, that I hadn’t realised how much time had passed since I last knocked. I was just about to try again when the elevator chimed and Riff stepped out.
He let out a breath and waved me over.
“Come on, man,” he called down the hall. “Clara’s about to go on a rampage.”
I gave Iggy’s door one last look before turning away. Regret and guilt clawed at me with every step, trying to drag me back. To keep me there, knocking until my knuckles split. Calling his name until he answered, or until someone made me stop.
