Chapter 53 Annalise
Annalise
Six Months, One Missing Piece, And No Map: Chase, Please Come Home
May
It starts with silence.
No phone call. No note beyond the one he left behind.
His house is packed up, empty, and abandoned. Toaster is gone too.
Tag says to give him space. Kenna says to give him hell.
As if I have a choice in either of those things.
The media starts circling like vultures, asking if Chase is in rehab or jail.
No. Maybe. We don’t know.
I move in with my brother.
One suitcase. One broken heart.
One of Chase’s old hoodies he left on the tour bus.
And a journal full of half-songs, still clinging to a trace of him.
***
June
I spend a lonely Saturday night at Sand Bar, sipping on rum.
Alex walks in with a girl on his arm.
He ditches her halfway through the night and slides onto the stool beside me, all casual charm and old ghosts.
He tells me about Thailand. Blue beaches, quiet nights.
The scorpion on a stick was overrated.
He says he’s doing better. Healing.
Part of me is happy for him. Part of me envies the peace he found.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone to come back,” he says.
I don’t correct him.
Around midnight, I pull out my phone and unfollow Alex on all my socials.
Then I order another drink.
No cherries. Just ice.
***
July
Chase’s social media goes dark. Kenna doesn’t know what to do, so she does nothing.
No sightings. No rumors. No clues.
We try to rehearse without him.
Tag takes over lead and flubs the intro to “Haloed.” Rock throws his sticks at the wall.
Nobody says what we’re all thinking: it doesn’t sound right without him.
At the end of the month, we play a show in upstate New York.
It’s a mess. No unity, no direction, no heart.
The crowd looks smaller.
I sing our old songs with a lump in my throat and my eyes on the wings of the stage, hoping he’ll walk out with his guitar slung over his shoulder like none of this ever happened.
And then he’ll kiss me.
***
August
We cancel three shows. Then five.
Finally, Carter releases a statement: “creative hiatus.” Any chance of securing a label deal is officially off the table.
The fans are kind but confused. They want answers.
So do I.
I finally get my driver’s license.
It takes me three tries and a deep breath that feels like swallowing glass, but sixteen-year-old me would be proud.
Back then, it was raining.
I remember the sound of the wipers. Alex screaming at me from the passenger’s seat, telling me I was doing it all wrong.
The hiss of metal. The silence after. The guilt.
But today I pass.
Parallel park without crying.
Thank the instructor without shaking.
I walk out of the DMV with a temporary license clutched in my hand, my photo slightly crooked, eyes too wide.
Still, it’s mine.
Proof that I can move forward.
***
September
The band stops practicing.
No more check-ins. No more late-night theories.
Everyone’s waiting. Holding their breath.
September is when the money shows up. Deposits are wired to every member of the band.
No note. No sender name.
But we know.
The house is quiet.
I sleep on the couch in the basement because I swear I still smell him in the timeworn cushions.
I dream of his voice.
But loving him is no different than dreaming: I open my eyes, and I wake up.
Fall is coming.
I feel it in my chest.
Like change. Like death.
I try to write a new song, but all I get are scribbles and tear stains.
The only lyric that sticks is “you promised.”
***
October
The leaves turn golden. I don’t.
My brother puts pumpkins on the front porch and lights cinnamon candles.
He’s trying.
I pretend I don’t see the concern in his eyes when I skip dinner three nights in a row. When I stare too long at the TV without registering a word.
I write half a song. Just pieces. Four chords and a broken chorus I can’t sing out loud.
Sometimes I think I hear Toaster scratching at the door.
Sometimes I think I hear Chase call my name.
But it’s just the house settling. Just memory playing tricks on me.
Halloween comes, and my costume is no different than the last few months.
I sit on the porch with a bowl of candy and wait for ghosts.
None of them look like him.
Take me back to
Midnight skies
Fireflies
Whiskey eyes
And honey moons disguised
As beautiful lies
***
Earthworms have five hearts.
I learned that in fourth grade, sitting cross-legged in the grass while my teacher held one up with gloved hands and a plastic magnifier.
“Five hearts,” she said. “So even when they’re torn in half, sometimes they still twitch.”
That stuck with me.
Not the hearts—
The twitch.
The way something can be broken and still pretend to live.
That’s what I’ve been doing since Chase left.
Not living. Not healing.
Just twitching.
Like a severed thing that doesn’t know it’s already dead.
I wonder how many hearts he tore through.
All five?
Or did one stay untouched, quiet, waiting, buried beneath the wreckage of the others?
Because I swear, I still feel something beating in my chest sometimes. When I hear his voice singing our songs. When I catch the scent of his cologne in my dirty laundry bin. When I wear his silver ring around my neck.
When I look at a goddamn toaster.
He didn’t just leave.
He eradicated himself. Scribbled an inky line through our story.
Like our love was a cancer he had to cut out.
And still, I twitch.
I breathe.
I lie to everyone who says I look better now.
I’m not. Not even close.
And the worst part is, if he came back tomorrow…
All five hearts would beat again.