The thought makes my chest feel light and dangerous all at once.
I push open the chalet door and call out his name automatically.
"Luka?"
The word echoes slightly.
No answer.
That’s fine. He could be in the shower. Or grabbing something from the car. Or back out for one last run before lunch.
I step inside and shut the door behind me, brushing snow off my sleeves.
That’s when something feels wrong.
Not dramatically wrong.
Just… off.
It takes a second for my brain to pinpoint it.
The kitchen counter is clear.
Too clear.
The coffee mug he left by the sink last night is gone. The protein bar wrapper that had been sitting near the edge of the table isn’t there. His jacket, previously slung casually over the back of the chair, had vanished.
My stomach tightens.
"Luka?" I call again, louder this time.
Nothing.
I walk further into the chalet, slower now, my senses sharpening in that instinctive way they do when something doesn’t add up.
The living room looks staged, as if no one has been living in it.
My heartbeat begins to thud in my ears as I move toward the bedroom.
The bed is made. The duffel bag that had been near the dresser is gone. As well as his boots, which had been by the door.
His toiletries no longer line the bathroom counter, and there is not a single trace of him left in this room.
For a few seconds, my brain refuses to accept what my eyes are seeing. Maybe he switched rooms. Maybe he—
But no.
People don’t take every belonging with them unless they’re not coming back.
The air in the room feels thinner.
Then I remember… my phone. I left it here by accident when I went to yoga.
I turn toward the bedside table quickly, hope rising stupidly and desperately in my chest that he left me a text or call to let me know where he went.
I see the yellow square sticky note stuck to my phone before I see anything else. His scrawl written over the top.
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out.
