the clock on the wall reads 12:47am.

you check your phone again. no messages. no missed calls. you’d texted mattheo an hour ago— you good? —and nothing. seen, but no reply.

it’s not like him. not usually. he’d at least send a drunk selfie from the bathroom or a baby come pick me up if things got boring.

you shift on the sofa, pulling your knees to your chest. outside, a car horn blares.

by 1:15am, your eyelids are heavy. the flat feels too big, too quiet. you stand, stretch, and stare at the door for a long moment, as if expecting it to swing open.

it doesn’t.

you give up. brush your teeth. change into an old t-shirt of his. crawl into bed that smells like his cologne and his shampoo. you tell yourself he’ll be fine.

at 6:32am, the house phone rings.

it’s jarring, loud, cuts through your dreams like a knife. you’re up before you’re awake, heart pounding, hand already reaching for the receiver on the bedside table.

you press it to your ear.