I don’t sleep.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted around my legs, the house too quiet to ignore. Every sound registers—the tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off, the distant rush of a car passing somewhere down the street.
I listen for her. The soft slide of the balcony door. The barely-there footfall on the floor. The familiar pause, like she’s checking whether I’m awake.
Nothing.
I shift onto my side. Then my back again. The mattress creaks faintly beneath me, betraying my restlessness.
She’s late.The thought comes unbidden, sharp and immediate. I don’t question it. I don’t tell myself she doesn’t owe me anything. I already know that.
It doesn’t help.
I know the patio and balcony doors are unlocked.
I checked it before bed.
Twice.
I try to convince myself that this is good. This is what I wanted. Space. Distance. Boundaries.
But my body doesn’t believe it.
Minutes crawl by. I glance at the clock and something tight twists in my chest.
Still nothing.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, irritation prickling under my skin. I pull on a pair of sweatpants, moving quietly through the house like I’m the one sneaking in.
The balcony door opens without resistance.
Cool night air spills in, brushing against my arms,raising goosebumps I pretend are from the cold rather than the unease coiling low in my stomach.
I step outside, bare feet meeting cold wood.
This is how people end up in psychiatric facilities—barefoot, emotionally compromised, searching for someone who isn’t there.
I scan the deck first. Then the yard.
My gaze moves slowly, methodically, searching every shadow, every corner of darkness where she might be standing, watching me.
But nothing moves.
No rustle. No vapor of breath. No presence.
The realization hits harder than I expected.
She’s not here.
I step farther onto the balcony, leaning slightly over the railing, eyes tracing the fence line, the hedges, the path through the woods that leads to her house.
Empty.
A hollow ache settles into my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Disappointment—sharp and unmistakable—lodges there like something I can’t dislodge with logic or reason.
I straighten and go back inside, closing the door behind me.
I return to bed, the sheets cold now, the space beside me too obvious. I lie there longer than I should, listening to the silence press in from all sides.
