The next three days passed in a strange, peaceful limbo. I slept deeply on my brother's couch, the sleep of the emotionally exhausted. I called my job—I worked remotely as a software developer—and told them I had a family emergency and would be unavailable for the rest of the week. My boss, a no-nonsense woman, simply said, "Handle it. Check in Monday."
I didn't check social media. I didn't wonder what she was doing. The mental channel that had been perpetually tuned to Chloe was just static now. I went for long runs. I ate sandwiches with my brother and watched bad action movies. I felt like a patient recovering from a long illness: weak, but clear-headed, appreciating the simple absence of pain.
Her return flight was scheduled for Sunday evening. I imagined it vaguely, the way you might imagine the weather in a city you'll never visit: the plane touching down, the tired trek through the airport, the rideshare line.
At 8:17 p.m., my phone, lying facedown on the coffee table, buzzed. Then buzzed again, and again—a flurry of short, insistent vibrations.
My brother looked up from his movie. "You going to get that?"
"No," I said, not moving.
The buzzing stopped. A minute later, it started again: a longer, persistent vibration. A call. It went to voicemail. Thirty seconds of silence. Then another call.
I sighed, picked up the phone. The screen showed Unknown Caller. A cold, knowing calm settled over me. I accepted the call and put it on speaker, setting the phone back on the table. I muted my end.
"Alex? Alex, are you there?"
Her voice was sharp, tinged with panic and indignation. It wasn't the voice of someone who missed me; it was the voice of someone who had opened a cupboard and found it empty.
"Hello? Pick up, damn it!" There was a rustling sound, a thump. "The power's out... why is the power out? And the internet is gone! Alex, this isn't funny. Where is all my stuff? My TV! You can't just do this—"
A beat of silence. I could hear her breathing, ragged. The voicemail beeped and the call disconnected.