I pull up behind her car, the engine ticking softly as I kill the ignition. The house looms ahead, still and silent. It’s dark, except for a faint amber glow seeping through the living room window—dim, like a lamp.
Was she thinking of me? Not wanting me to step into darkness. My heart swells even more with love for her.
My eyes can’t leave the house, though. Something feels different. Off. Like I’m about to walk through the front door and have my heart ripped from me.
I get out of the car slowly, gravel crunching under my feet as I make my way up the steps. The night air is heavy. And then I see it. I would’ve missed it if they were anywhere other than right in front of the door.
Her purse.
Her phone.
Her keys.
All scattered across the porch like they were dropped mid-step. No order, no reason. Just pure chaos.
My breath catches. A strange pressure coiling in my chest.
She wouldn’t leave these here.
Fear prickles my skin, my pulse racing. I step over her things, fumbling with the lock—my hands won’t stop shaking. The key jams once, then slides in and I turn it, pushing in. The door creaks open.
"Hey?!" I shout, voice cracking. "Hey, Felicity, are you here?"
Nothing.
No response. Just quiet.
I move through the house fast, reckless. The living room’s empty. Kitchen—silent. One by one I throw open doors, calling her name louder each time. Bedroom. Bathroom. No sign of her. No answer.
Just that faint, humming silence.
My chest feels tight. I try to breathe, but I can't. My lungs won’t fill right. Fear grips me tighter, harder, cold and merciless. I stumble over my feet, racing back outside.
I have to find her. She has to be okay.
I bend over, grabbing her things, my fingers shaking as I check if her phone is open. The screen lights up. And I sigh a breath of relief. She doesn’t have a lock on her phone.
I click open her message app, thankful I don’t even have to scroll. The person I want is right on top.
Opening the thread, my fingers fly over the screen.
Me: Is she there?
Me: Please say she is.
The longer I stand there and the message goes unread, the more anxious I become.
I turn around, pulling my keys from where they still hang in the doorknob, lock it and race to my car. Right now, all I can think about is Felicity. She has to be okay.
Something is wrong.
So, so wrong.
And I need to know where she is. But I need help. I can't do this alone.
I don’t need GPS. I’ve been there before, well, driven past. Call it curiosity, but I needed to know more about him. He’s important to Felicity, so that placed him firmly on the need to know basis for me.
Call me crazy. Call me a stalker. I’ll take the title proudly. Especially when it involves her.
