I rummage through my dresser before pulling out a frayed pair of jeans and an old Illini hoodie. The sweatshirt is soft, familiar, and comforting, like I’m reclaiming a part of myself as I slip into the cozy cotton.
I sit crisscross on the couch and push aside the pile of papers I printed at work as research on LuminaLuxe and its products to make room for my Posh Pulse–issued laptop. The screen flashes to life, and I squint against the artificial pale glow. The laptop hums as I open my Slack, email, and personal texts, my muscles tensing against the onslaught that’s sure to come.
But it doesn’t.
I frown, reading through the handful of messages from my mom about two other “single and ready to mingle” shut-ins whose mothers she met at pickleball. No missed calls, no worried texts, no email, or Slack filled with urgent work matters that couldn’t be resolved without me. Jade said she was letting me have mental health time, but zero check-ins feels harsh. The only email that’s not a courtesy cc is from American Express.
Congratulations, Hannah, your credit card limit has been increased to thirty thousand dollars!
I nearly choke on my spit, letting out a dry, hacking cough as I close the computer and set it on the rickety coffee table. Clearly the credit card company didn’t get the memo that there’s no raise on the horizon.
Coughing into the crook of my elbow, I move to the kitchen, the soles of my feet sticking to the cracked linoleum. I don’t bother getting a glass. Instead, I turn on the faucet and cup my hands underneath, then slurp upa gulp to calm my throat. I search for the paper towels, but the tube on the rack is empty.
One by one, I open the cabinets, each creaking door a shrill laugh in the quiet. My gaze drifts over the dented can of soup tucked away in the back corner, the last remnant of a grocery run months ago. The empty shelves stare back at me in silent judgment as I attempt to find something, anything, to fill the void.
“It’s empty.”
I glance around my small shabby apartment. The walls are bare, the furniture is mismatched and worn, and the space feels more like a temporary shelter than a home.
Empty cabinets. Empty inbox. Empty relationships.
“Every! Thing! Is! Empty!” I shout into the void, punctuating each word with a slam of a cabinet. The noise reverberates through the kitchen, making the apartment feel full, if only for a moment.
For the past three years, I’ve been trying to make something of myself, to make a positive change in the world, but all I’ve done is stumble from one mistake to another. I wanted to bring something meaningful to people’s lives, to create campaigns that inspire and uplift and make a real impact. But what have I actually accomplished?
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off the cold that seems to pour in through the walls. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough. The chill isn’t only physical; it’s an emptiness that fills every corner of my life.
“No one even noticed I was gone.”
I’ve been missing for days, dropped into a realm ofmagick and danger, and not a single person in this world reacted.
I sink to the floor. Leaning against the cabinets, my heart aches with a new kind of pain, a longing for a place that isn’t my home but felt like it could be.
There’s a knock at the door, a sharp rap that jars me from my doom and gloom. I pick myself up off the kitchen linoleum and make my way to the entrance. Maybe someone noticed I was gone after all.
I open the door and am met with the last person I’d ever thought I’d see.
“Chad?”
“Hey, Hannah.” He flashes that charming smile that once had me hooked but now just makes me want to punch him. “Can I come in?”
I hesitate for a moment, then step aside, letting him inside. He strides in and looks around like he’s about to give me an insurance quote.
I grimace.
The place looks even worse with him in it.
He leans on the lip of the elevated peninsula that serves as my dining room, running his hand through his purposefully tousled hair in that annoyingly casual way he always does. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you the past few days. I mean, you didn’t text. You didn’t call…”
“You didn’t stay faithful.” I interject, cold and flat.
“Listen, Hannah, I didn’t realize we were that serious. If that’s what you wanted, you should have communicated with me. I can’t read your mind.”
“I should have communicated. You’re seriously putting this on me?” I cross my arms over my chest,trying to keep my voice steady, my anger contained. “You were the one sneaking around.”
He steps closer, his expression softening, his eyes sparkling with a sincerity that throws me off-balance. The man in front me is the one I thought I cared about, the one I thought was kind and gracious, the one who took me to restaurants and events I’d never imagined going to.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs. “We both made mistakes, but I want to make things right between us.”
