After sinking into the sofa, every muscle heavy and unwilling, I forced my fingers to type a quick message to my assistant and team: not making it to the office today. The professional mask slipped off with that single line. My body needed rest. My mind needed answers. And as always, my reflex carried me straight to WhatsApp - not for work, not for distractions, but for him.
Even in that fragile, half-broken state, my heart had the audacity to expect. To hope. But the screen was blank. No message from him. Not a single word. The disappointment hit me like a sudden bruise - sharp, unnecessary, but real.
Don't be stupid, I scolded myself, though the sting remained. I typed anyway: hey, you left early…I don't feel too good today so will be taking the day off. Call when you can. Love you. I hit send, placed the phone on the center table, and closed my eyes. Sleep claimed me not as comfort but as an escape.
When I woke again, it was hunger that dragged me back. Hunger knotted with nausea, weakness seeping into my bones. The clock read 11 AM - nearly four hours gone. Four hours since I had sent that message. And there it was: a single gray tick. Not delivered.
Strange. Unusual. My chest tightened, but I brushed it off. I dialed his number, craving the simple reassurance of his voice. Instead, the operator's cold, mechanical tone answered: "The number you are trying to reach is either switched off or unavailable."
My body went rigid. No. That couldn't be right. A glitch, a bad network zone - that had to be it. I dialed again. And again. Each attempt, the same sterile rejection. My fingers trembled as my heart pounded against my ribs, faster than my body could keep up with. Panic crept in, thin and relentless.
Not for me. For him. Where is he? Why isn't he answering?
I glanced at my call log. The number 27 stared back in glaring red - 27 desperate attempts in just a few minutes. My temples throbbed harder, my head pounding like a war drum. I dragged myself to the kitchen, placing the phone on the counter as though setting down a burden. My hands moved on autopilot: bread into the toaster, coffee brewing. The mechanical routine of survival.
I chewed slowly, each bite turning to sand in my mouth. Between swallows, I kept typing - frantic messages this time. Hey, where are you? Why is your phone unavailable? Are you okay? Please just call me back. I pressed record and left voice notes, my voice trembling, cracked, foreign to my own ears. The nausea and fatigue twisted my tone into something frail, pathetic. Listening back, I hated it. Hated the way I sounded. Hated the way I was unraveling.
The food disappeared but brought no comfort, only the dull hope that strength might return if I forced myself to keep going. But instead of easing, a new tide of emotions surged through me - fear, doubt, suspicion, grief. Each one louder than the last.
I tried him again. Same response. That lifeless operator. That void.
I dropped the phone on the table and stumbled toward the bedroom, the weight of silence following me like a shadow I couldn't shake.