The road stretched endlessly ahead, a silver ribbon cutting through wet fields. The storm had passed, but the world still smelled of rain. I kept driving with no destination in mind, the hum of the tires against the asphalt my only company. Every few miles, I glanced at my phone on the passenger seat. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages.
Each hour of silence felt like confirmation. He wasn't going to reach for me. She wasn't going to explain. The people who had once filled my life had vanished into the quiet they created.
By noon I pulled into a gas station just off the highway. The sunlight was weak, filtering through low clouds. I filled the tank, bought a bottle of water, and stood beside the car while it cooled. Somewhere nearby, a radio played a song about lost love and forgiveness. The words cut too close.
I wanted to throw the phone away, to rid myself of the need to look at it. But every few minutes, my eyes drifted back, hoping for a vibration, a name flashing across the screen.
When the call finally came, it wasn't from Mark or Mia.
The name that appeared on the screen made my heart skip — Ethan Warren.
I hesitated before answering. Ethan had been a colleague at the firm — quiet, kind, the sort of man who noticed things without saying much. He'd covered for me once when I forgot a deadline, sent flowers when my father died. But it had been months since we last spoke.
I swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Grace?" His voice was careful, soft. "Thank God. I wasn't sure this was still your number."
I swallowed hard. "It is."
"I—uh, I tried calling your office," he said, words tumbling fast. "They said you'd taken some time off. I just wanted to check if you were okay."
Okay. Such a simple word. Such an impossible question. I looked out across the empty highway. "I don't know," I said finally.
There was a pause. On his end I could hear the faint rustle of paper, the creak of his chair. "Do you want to talk about it?"
I almost laughed. If I started talking, I might never stop. "No," I said softly. "Not yet."
"That's fine." He didn't push. "Just… maybe don't disappear completely, all right? People worry."
"People?" I asked. "Or you?"
He hesitated. "Both."
The single word hung in the air between us. It wasn't heavy with expectation, only truth. I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear something human until that moment.
"I'm somewhere outside Brookhaven," I said. "I don't even know why I drove this far."
"Because sometimes leaving is easier than staying," he said quietly.
I closed my eyes. "You sound like you know."
"I do."
We didn't speak for a while. Just the sound of his breathing through the phone, steady and real. It felt like an anchor, something that reminded me the world still existed beyond betrayal.
"Grace," he said finally, "come back to the city when you can. Take the week off if you need it. But don't let them take everything from you. Not your job. Not your sense of self."
The words settled inside me like a slow kind of warmth. He wasn't saying the right things — he was saying honest ones.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," I admitted.
"Then come back and find out," he said. "You don't have to do it alone."
A long breath left me. For the first time since last night, I didn't feel like I was floating in a void. "Thank you, Ethan."
"Anytime," he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Text me when you get somewhere safe, okay?"
"I will."
When the call ended, I stared at the screen for a long moment before setting the phone down. The silence that followed wasn't as cruel as before. It was softer, like the calm after a storm.
I sat in the car, drinking the last of my water, watching the clouds drift apart to reveal a pale slice of blue sky. My reflection in the windshield looked almost human again — tired, hollow-eyed, but alive.
I started the engine.
This time, I didn't drive to escape. I drove toward something — even if I didn't know what yet.
The road wound back toward the city, where the pieces of my old life waited to be faced.
As the miles passed, I rolled down the window and let the wind tangle my hair. Somewhere deep inside, a small, defiant spark flickered — the beginning of something new.
I wasn't ready to forgive.
I wasn't ready to heal.
But for the first time since everything shattered, I was ready to try.