The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
I settled into the couch, the weight of uncertainty pressing down.
Every creak of the house seemed amplified, each sound a reminder of my solitude.
I reached for my phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages, hoping for a distraction.
But my mind kept returning to the same question: where were they really?
I considered calling a friend, someone to share this burden with, but hesitated.
How do you explain a suspicion that feels both irrational and undeniable?
The thought of voicing it out loud made it feel more real, more pressing.
I set the phone down, opting instead for a book, though the words blurred on the page.
The narrative of someone else’s life felt hollow against the backdrop of my own.
