My brother raised an eyebrow. "The plot thickens."
I just shook my head.
The phone buzzed again. A text from a different unknown number:
Alex, it's me. What the hell? I come home to a dark apartment and half my things are gone. This is insane. You need to call me right now. We need to talk about this like adults.
I deleted the text.
Another buzz, five minutes later:
Seriously, Alex, I'm worried about you. This is so extreme. Are you having a mental break? Where are you staying? We can figure this out. Just call me.
The shift had begun: anger was sliding into concern-trolling. I pictured her standing in the dark apartment, the reality of the empty spaceโthe literal and metaphorical voidโstarting to seep in. The TV she watched every night, gone. The router that connected her to her world, gone. The comforting, taken-for-granted presence of my things that filled the life she curated, gone.
I went to bed.
In the morning, there were three more missed calls from unknown callers and a new string of texts:
Alex, please. I'm sitting on the floor and I'm just scared. Please just call me back. I made a mistake, okay? The trip, it was a mistake. It wasn't what you think. Mark and Jake are just friends. We all just hung out as a group.
I'm sorry I said to leave. I was stressed about the trip, you know how I get. I didn't mean it.