Maybe he went for a walk. Coffee. Air.
My heart kicks harder as I glance around the room.
No hoodie on the chair. No boots by the door. No phone charger.
No sign of him anywhere.
A chill races down my spine.
I stumble out of bed, pulse spiking, yanking open the bathroom door.
Empty.
No toiletries, no used towel. No Chase.
A thousand possibilities spiral through my head, each one worse than the last. My breath comes too fast, too shallow.
He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t. Not after last night.
Not after he held me. Not after his arms wrapped around me slow and careful, like I was breakable, but so was he. His breath was shaky against my neck, but steadying with every beat. His fingers threaded through mine beneath the sheets, and he pulled my hand to his chest as if he was afraid he’d stop breathing without it there.
I remember the way his thumb brushed over my knuckles, grounding himself to reality. To me.
I remember his heartbeat slowing.
His lips ghosting against my forehead.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, Annie.”
And I believed him.
I let myself fall asleep wrapped in that lie.
Warm, hopeful, safe.
And now he’s gone.
Anxiety spikes, the world narrowing around me.
I look toward the door again. Across the room. Every corner, every nook.
Then I see it.
A folded piece of paper on the nightstand.
My name is scrawled across it in the messy, slanted way he signs autographs when he’s tired.
No.
No, no, no.
I move, racing to the nightstand, my hands shaking as I reach for the note.
Hope bleeding out. Gut screaming.
And the moment my fingers brush the page, I know.
This is a goodbye.
