Page 16 of Life After You

The air is thick with the scent of vanilla orchids and Axe body spray, a weird mix of Mac’s favorite reed diffuser and Braden’s old cologne. It’s not unpleasant. Not what I feared. But it still knocks the breath from my lungs.

The hallway is pristine. Too pristine. Spotless floors, no dust, no clutter. Photos line the walls, familiar but distant, like looking into someone else’s life. Family outings. Mr. and Mrs. Smith cutting their wedding cake. A heavily pregnant Mrs. Smith, gaunt but glowing, on her way to the hospital.

Everything feels wrong.

Like a fucking museum filled with exhibits of the past.

“Mac?” My voice barely carries.

No answer.

A stack of unopened letters sits on the floor near the entrance. I scoop them up as I move deeper inside, dropping them onto the coffee table. The living room is eerily neat. No takeout boxes. No piles of laundry. No sign of life.

I flick the light on. Shadows shrink back into corners.

“Mac, where you at?” I call again.

Nothing.

The silence presses down harder.

My feet carry me upstairs before I fully register I’m moving. Her bedroom door is ajar. My pulse quickens as I step inside, her scent hitting me like a punch to the gut. It’s overwhelming. Familiar.

Her bed is made.

Too neatly.

Like no one’s slept in it.

I sink onto the edge of the mattress, my hands braced on my knees, trying to breathe. My gaze snags on something small and out of place—

A slip of paper on her pillow.

My name scrawled across it in her handwriting.

I pick it up, my fingers curling tight around the edges.

And suddenly, I don’t want to open it.

One word, a singular fucking word.

Sorry.

Sorry about what, Mac? What have you done?

I read it again. And again. My mind refuses to process it, like a glitching record skipping back to the same fucking note.

"Sorry?" I whisper, my voice cracking. The word burrows into me, growing louder, until I snap.

"Fucking sorry?! That’s it?!"

I crumple the paper in my fist, shoving it deep into my jeans pocket like I can bury the raw panic rising inside me. My pulse pounds in my ears, hot and erratic. My vision blurs at the edges, my breaths ragged as my chest rises and falls too fast. I want to break something, to throw my fists through the pristine walls that still smell like her. But I can’t. I can’t fucking move. My limbs are locked tight, frozen in the spot where I last saw her standing in this room. The sense of loss crashes over me like a second wave of grief, one I’m not sure I can survive.

Why wouldn’t she talk to me? What the hell is going on?

My hand rakes through my hair, tugging hard at the roots, like pain might somehow pull me back to reality. I turn too fast, the movement jerky, my body coiled so tight it hurts. My brain scrambles for solutions, anything that will make this moment make sense. Should I call the CMP? A private investigator? A fucking bounty hunter? What are my options here? What the fuck do I do?

Lost in thought, I move blindly, knocking against the bedside table. Something clatters to the floor. I flinch, my stomach twisting as I look down.

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