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“You said a neighbor saw him yesterday?” The officer confirms, and I nod, pointing to her door.

The younger one knocks on her door, and the woman from last night answers in a robe, her eyes going wide at the uniforms but she cooperates. She tells him what she told me, that he looked fine, just tired.

The officers exchange a look I don't like, and the older one turns to me, his voice gentler now.

“Look, son. He was seen yesterday, and there’s nothing here telling us he’s in danger. No smell, no mail piling up, no one’s heard anything concerning. Without a reason to believe he’s hurt, we can’t go in.”

“But he’s not answering⁠—”

“Adults are allowed not to answer their door.” He pauses, and I can tell he’s trying to be kind about it. “Sometimes people just don’t want to talk to whoever’s on the other side.”

My jaw drops slightly. Could it really be that? Does he not want to open the door because of me? Before I can figure out how to argue with that, the toilet flushes inside the apartment.

All three of us go still, and I look to the officers. The older one exhales and the younger one nods like that settles everything.

“Someone’s in there,” he says. “That’s what we needed. He’s alive, and from everything we have, he’s okay. We’re going to note it and clear the call.”

“That’s it? You haven’t even laid eyes on him. What if⁠—”

“That’s it.” He studies my face for a second. “If you get information that he’s in danger, any threats, anything concrete, you call 911 right away. But otherwise, I’d give him some space. Maybe he’s just not ready to see you.”

I nod because I don’t trust my voice. They head back down the stairs, and the woman across the hall gives me a sympathetic look before quietly shutting her door.

A toilet flush. That’s all it took for them to decide he’s fine. How is that enough?

But it means he’s alive, and relief floods me so hard I have to lean against the wall. Then the officer’s words creep back in.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to answer the door for you.

What if this is his answer? What if the silence these last two weeks wasn’t him struggling, but him ending it, and he just doesn’t know how to say it? Maybe I’m just failing to take a hint? Could that really be the case? I built up what we had so much that I’m failing to see that maybe he isn’t as into me, but that doesn’t sound like him. It doesn’t sound like the guy who basically bought the entire breakfast aisle when I came to stay before Christmas.

At least, that’s what I have to believe. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Fuck, did I just make everything worse? I imagine him in there, hearing the police pound on his door, hearing the words “wellness check,” and that scaring him. I did that. Whatever he’s going through, I probably just made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper through the door. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared.”

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t expect him to.

Hearing him move tells me he’s alive, but it doesn’t tell me he’s okay. Those aren’t the same thing, and I’m not leaving until I know the second one, too. Somehow.

My flight back to Seattle is tonight, but I can’t leave yet. Around five, I email my boss and ask for Monday off, and she gives it to me without much question. Marcus has work tomorrow, too so he has to open that door eventually, and when he does, I’m going to be right here.

I finally accept that he’s not answering the door today, and once again, walk back to my hotel feeling completely and utterly defeated.

Now, it’s Monday, and I’m sitting here with my bag, knowing I’m supposed to head to the airport from here. I hoped I’d catch him heading to work but it’s after ten in the morning and he still hasn’t opened the door. I think I’ve said everything there is to say through a closed door.

I don’t know if this is depression, or if he’s sick, or if he’s sick of me, and not knowing makes it so much harder to know what I’m supposed to do, or how afraid I should be.

He’s clearly not planning to answer the door, so I pull out my phone and hope that maybe he’ll respond to this one text message, even if he’s ignored all the other ones.

My hands are shaking as I type it out, and I hate how clinical and terrifying the words sound when they’re laid out like this, but I need to know. I don’t want there to be any room for misinterpretation.

Me:

I’m not giving up on you, Marcus, but I need to go home today. Can you just do one thing for me before I go? Just tell me you’re safe and you’re not going to hurt yourself. That’s all I need. That’s why I called the wellness check yesterday. I’m sorry, I just need to know you’re okay. I’m not asking you to talk, or open the door, or be okay. I just need to know you’re not in danger. I can’t leave without knowing. Please answer me. Are you going to hurt yourself?

I watch the message sit there showing delivered and my whole chest feels tight while I wait. I don’t know if I should’ve directly called it out like that, but the closer I get to leave, the more petrified I am. I hope the wording didn’t just push him further away from me, but I also can’t sit here and consider leaving on that flight today without knowing.