I drop my bag onto a tufted velvet armchair and sit at the foot of the bed, springs giving with perfect, engineered softness. My hands shake as I pull out my phone.
No new messages.
Nothing from Ryder.
I open our text thread. The last message is from me, sent when I was still in the car—I didn’t make it out of Hollow Creek before I stopped on the side of the road to reach out.
Faye
I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?
I swipe the message to the left to see the receipt confirmation:
Read today 6.47 p.m.
He got the text, read it, and chose not to respond.
My ribs compress around lungs that still won’t expand properly.
I type another message.
Faye
I know I should have told you. But please don’t shut me out
I hit send and track the status change to delivered. No blue ticks this time.
I take a shower, and when I re-emerge from the bathroom, the message shows as read, but with no reply.
I text again.
Faye
Ryder, please
Read today 8.04 p.m.
My vision blurs. I blink against the sting, but the tears fall anyway. I curl on the bed, phone clutched against my chest, and let the sobs wreck me. They rip out of me in ugly, choking sounds that echo in the perfect room with its perfect view.
I cry until my throat is raw, my face swollen, and my head pounds with a headache that sits behind my eyes like a vise. The sunset fades to dusk, the room darkening around me as I lie in a fetal position, willing my phone to light up with his name.
It never does. I fall asleep above the covers, still waiting.
Morning comes too early. My eyes are gritty, swollen. My head throbs from too much crying. I check my phone. Still nothing from Ryder.
I have to be at school in an hour, so despite wanting to burrow under the comforter and not face the world, I shower and add extra concealer under my eyes to hide the puffiness.
I exist in a fog all day. Checking my phone obsessively and doing my best to avoid speaking to anyone. By the time the session ends, my body aches from hours of sitting in the same stiff position. I gather my things and slip out before any of my coworkers corner me for small talk. The drive back to the resort is a blur. I park in the underground garage and take the elevator up to my floor. The hallway is quiet, and the plush carpet muffles my footsteps. I unlock my door and step inside.
Housekeeping has been in, making the bed and folding fresh towels in the bathroom. Everything is pristine.
And so damn empty.
I can’t spend another night alone in this room, staring at my phone, waiting for a message that won’t come.
I need… movement, noise, other people—but none that I know. Anything to keep my brain from eating itself alive with regret and what-ifs.
I’ll go to the bar downstairs. Sit in a corner with a drink—not a cocktail or I’d spiral into the fastest sad drunk, but a Coke or something—and be around other humans without having to interact. Strangers who don’t know me, don’t care, and won’t ask questions.
