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I touch the word Daddy at the bottom with one finger.

That helps more than it should.

“Okay,” I whisper to nobody.

Rabbit’s black bead eyes stare. Bear’s too, from where he’s half-smothered under the blanket. I gather them both, their soft bodies familiar under my hands. “Daddy left a note, so it’s okay. He’s coming back.”

They don’t look convinced.

“I know,” I murmur into Rabbit’s ear. “Me neither.”

Not completely. But it’s still so much better than waking up cuffed to a bed with no clock, no phone, no way to know if he was ten feet away or ten miles gone forever.

I sit for another minute, the note in one hand, Bear’s plush fur against my chest with the other, before I carefully fold the paper along its crease. Then again, making a small, thick square. I tuck it into the little drawer of the nightstand. I’m not sure why. I just don’t want to let it go.

Daddy left breakfast in a glass container with a yellow sticky note on top.

Microwave 90 seconds. Eat all of it.

Yes, all of it.

I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile. Then I see it—a tiny, clumsily drawn heart beside “all of it”—and my chest goes warm and tight.

Breakfast is egg-and-cheese casserole, golden-brown on top with bits of crispy potato and little chunks of sausage buried inside. There’s a separate bowl of grapes.

I eat at the kitchen island with Rabbit and Bear propped on the stools beside me.

Bear is newer. His official name is just… Bear. I thought about naming him something less obvious, but then I remembered Rabbit and decided consistency was better than creativity. Also—he’s brown. He’s fuzzy. He’s a bear. It fits.

Daddy laughed when I told him, a real laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes the way I love. Then he kissed my forehead and said it was perfect, which probably means he knows it’s a terrible name and has chosen to enable me anyway.

The food tastes good.

Everything Adrien cooks tastes good.

I finish everything, because he told me to, and because I know he’ll ask.

And because the thought of telling him, “I ate everything like you said, Daddy,” and getting that proud look makes something inside me buzz.

When I’m done, I wash my plate, then stand in the kitchen, not sure what else to do on my own.

I wish Daddy were here. I wish he left me more instructions.

I check my phone, but there are no new messages. I wish I knew what time Daddy left. It’s barely 7:30 now, but if he left a few hours ago, he could be back soon. Likewise, if he left just before I woke up, he probably won’t be back for a while.

For the first thirty minutes, I sit at the kitchen island with a coloring book. Not my fashion one, but a “little” one with unicorns, fairies, and stuff.

By the second half-hour, I’ve abandoned the coloring book and moved to the couch. I try to watch television, but I spend most of the time looking toward the hallway whenever the house creaks.

By nine, I am officially sad.

I know Adrien is coming back, because he said so.

I believe him—mostly.

But knowing someone is coming back doesn’t make them less gone while you wait.

I miss him.