Chapter 41
Calla
Everything about this day feels wrong.
I sit in my car, parked in the lot outside my apartment, letting it wash over me. My body sinks into the seat, exhaustion wrapping around me like a second skin. And before I can stop them, the tears pour.
They slip down my cheeks silently, one after another, until the minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
Eventually, I force myself out of the car, using every ounce of strength I have to push the building door open, drag myself up the stairs, and into my apartment.
On the way up, my mind gets the better of me.
Each step feeds a foolish hope—that Haiyden might be there.
Sitting on the couch. Waiting. His usual unreadable expression softened just for me.
Like he understands that I need him. Like he was never gone to begin with.
Like there was never so much hurt in the world that we had to live through.
Are either of us really living, though ?
The moment I step inside, reality crashes down.
Everything is exactly where I left it. Untouched. The silence clings to the walls, swallowing me whole. The air feels stale, like nothing has moved in days.
He was never here. He’s still gone.
I make my way to the bedroom and drop onto the bed, fingers hovering over my phone. Hesitation crawls up my spine. I don’t want to do this.
But I have to.
With a deep breath, I type Willow Greystone into the search bar.
The results load instantly—a flood of articles, photos, speculation. My chest tightens as I scan the headlines, each one a dagger to an already bleeding heart.
Missing Person: The Search for Willow Greystone
The Night She Disappeared: What Happened to Willow?
I don’t want to see any of it, but I can’t look away.
I click on the most recent article, stomach twisting as I skim the words.
Willow Greystone, 28, was last seen on the night of June 14th at a party near Lake Crest. Witnesses report she left the gathering around midnight, but no one saw which direction she went.
Authorities believe she may have taken a wrong turn while walking back to her car, ultimately getting lost in the dense surrounding woods.
That’s it. That’s the official story.
The last person to see her was a partygoer—someone who spotted her walking toward the trees.
And then—nothing.
I close the article, swallowing down the nausea rising in my throat.
I can’t stop imagining Haiyden reading those same words, over and over, desperate for something more. Some piece of truth buried between the lines.
I keep searching, my hands shaking as I click on another headline.
This one’s worse.
“A few people at the party said they heard something, like, yelling for help. But the music was really loud, so I don’t know,” said one witness, who asked to remain anonymous.
The police covered over five square miles of rugged terrain, but after weeks of investigation, no significant evidence was found.
The active search has been closed, though the case remains open.
The words blur. My fingers tighten around my phone.
She just vanished.
No explanation. No closure. No trace. The missing pieces. The gaping holes. The unbearable stillness.
And the photos of her only make it worse.
She was beautiful—dark brown hair cut into a sharp bob, her smile bright, her eyes dark but alive. She looks so much like Haiyden. But where his face is shadowed and haunted, hers is playful. Open. Curious.
I imagine she was all the things Haiyden used to be, before grief took them from him.
I keep scrolling—more photos, more headlines—but it’s all the same.
Pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit.
Frustrated, I lock my phone and drop it into the nightstand drawer. But the temptation scratches at me, restless and constant. It won’t let me go .
I cave.
I grab it again, thumbing over the screen, opening social media despite myself.
It used to annoy me, how much everyone at work shared. Their weekends, their workouts, their picture-perfect brunches. While my life felt like it was nothing worth posting.
But now, I’m grateful for it.
I tap in Hannah’s username, scrolling past the usuals—a neatly plated meal, a sunrise hike, a gym mirror selfie—until I find what I’m looking for: a photo dump from her recent trip to Europe.
I flip through. France. Italy. A vineyard in Spain.
Then, a photo of Hannah and her sister, sitting outside a café in Paris. They’re laughing over espresso cups, the warm summer sun casting gold across their skin. It’s the kind of happiness that looks effortless. The kind that always feels just out of reach.
My heart pounds. I tap the photo. Her sister’s username pops up. My thumb hovers for half a second before clicking into it.
Her profile is public.
Guilt creeps in, but I push past it, scrolling anyway.
More travel photos. Candids. A beach photo. And… the lake.
The air in my lungs turns sour.
I swipe through the photos—familiar trees, the same rocky shoreline, a sky painted in long streaks of orange and pink.
My heart pounds harder, but there’s a strange feeling in my gut. Like I should remember something. Like the night in the photos should belong to me.
The last image is a group shot—arms slung over shoulders, summer clothes, sun-soaked skin .
And in the corner of the photo—
Willow.
I beg my lungs to breathe.
She looks carefree. Happy. Alive. Just like Haiyden described her. But seeing her like this—so full of light, so untouched by the loss that lives in her name—it’s jarring.
And then—
Jules.
Her arm is wrapped around Willow, laughing, leaning into her like they existed in each other’s gravity.
I stare, unblinking.
They knew each other.
They were friends .
My mind claws at the image, desperate, like the answer is hidden somewhere in the curve of their smiles.
Why didn’t Jules ever mention this?
And Haiyden… why hasn’t he?
I scroll back and forth, my fingers moving automatically, my heart pounding louder with each pass.
I see Jules again. And again.
And each time, she feels further away. Further from the friend I thought I knew.
It’s a connection I never even thought to look for.
The truth looms over me, slippery and just out of reach. I’m realizing now that I don’t know anything. Not about Jules. Not about Willow. Not about Haiyden.
A silent sob slips from my lips, shaking through me. My phone tumbles from my hand to the floor, forgotten .
The confusion. The grief. The loss. It all becomes too much.
I curl tighter, pressing my hands to my ribs, like I can hold myself together.
But the feeling doesn’t stop.
It consumes me.