"Zo?" I call out, shrugging off my jacket. No answer. "Love, you awake?"
Nothing. The house feels wrong somehow—too still, too empty. I move through the living room toward the stairs that lead up to the bedroom, every instinct I have suddenly screaming that something's off.
The bed's made. Perfectly made, like she spent time on it. Like she was trying to leave things tidy.
My stomach drops.
"Zola?" Louder now, checking the bathroom, the kitchen, back to the bedroom. "Zola!"
She's not here. None of her things are here. The laptop she was using for school—gone. The bag Nialyn brought her with clothes—gone. Even her phone charger's missing from the nightstand.
No. No, this isn't happening. She's probably just—what? Where the fuck would she go three days out from major surgery?
That's when I see it. White paper on the pillow, folded once. My name written across the front in her precise handwriting.
My hands shake as I pick it up. For a long moment I just stare at it, heart hammering against my ribs, unable to make myself open it because once I do this becomes real. Whatever's inside becomes real.
I unfold the letter.
Declan,
I can't do this anymore. I've been lying in your bed for days trying to convince myself this could work, but our lives are too different. We're trying to force something that was never going to fit.
Maybe we've always been trying to do that. It's never been easy between us because we've never wanted the same things. Never been right for each other. It's finally time to admit that. I have plans that won't work if I stay with you. You're involved in things I shouldn't be close to, and we both know it.
Please don't come looking for me. Let me go so I can figure out my life and you can move forward with yours. This is better for both of us.
I'm sorry.
-Z
The letter crumples in my fist. I can't breathe properly. Can't think past the roaring in my ears that sounds like my entire world ending.
She left. Zola fucking left.
I dial her number with shaking fingers. It goes straight to voicemail. I call again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
"Goddamn it!" I throw my phone across the room, hear it crack against the wall. Then I'm moving, grabbing my jacket, my keys, already planning where to check first. Nialyn's place. Her old apartment. The hospital. Somewhere. She has to be somewhere and I will tear this city apart until I find her.
But I'm off kilter. I'm shaking so hard that I think I'd drive into my own fucking house before I got out of the driveway. It's all too fucking much, and I cross the room to pick up my phone—which is miraculously still working.
I dial Stellan, who answers on the second ring. "I thought you'd be busy the rest of?—"
"She's gone." The words scrape out. "Zola's gone. She left a fucking letter and disappeared and I can't—I have to find her. I have to?—"
"Dec. Slow down." Stellan's voice goes sharp, focused. "What do you mean gone?"
"She's not here. Her stuff's not here. She left a letter saying we're too different and she can't do this anymore." I'm pacing now, moving through the house like I might find her hiding somewhere if I just look hard enough. "I'm going to find her. I'm going to bring her home and we're going to talk about this and?—"
"Declan." He cuts me off. "Stop. Think for a second."
"I don't need to think. I need to find her."
"And then what?" There's something careful in his tone. Something that makes my chest constrict. "You drag her back here? Force her to stay?"
"I'm not—that's not—" But the words stick because that's exactly what I'm planning. Find her, convince her, make her understand that we belong together. Whatever it takes.
That's what I've always done. It took me over a year to even get her to answer a phone call, but she did eventually. She fell in love with me. She just needs to see that I'll choose her, that I'll put her first.
