The taxi ride home felt endless. The driver hummed quietly to the radio while I watched the city roll by, imagining the comfort of home which are the feel of my own sheets, the smell of Claire’s cooking and the warmth of her touch. I wanted to believe things would feel normal again.

But as soon as the car pulled into the driveway, that illusion cracked. Claire’s car was already there, parked haphazardly, crooked as if she’d stopped in a rush. That small detail sent a chill through me.

I paid the fare, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped inside. The house was dark except for a faint glow coming from upstairs. The silence was heavy and unnatural. I didn’t call out her name. Something deep down told me not to.