Jude doesn't text.
At first, that's normal.
He's always needed distance after conflict. Time to cool off. Time to think. I tell myself it's that. I tell myself not to spiral.
By the second day, the town notices.
By the third, I do too.
His truck is gone from the pier.
The lights at his place stay dark.
Someone mentions, casually, that they haven't seen him at the gym.
I don't panic yet.
Cassian notices before I say anything.
"He's quiet," he says one evening, leaning against the counter while I pretend to cook. "Even for him."
"He'll resurface," I reply. Too fast.
Cassian watches me carefully. "You sure?"
"Yes."
I'm lying.
On the fourth day, I drive past Jude's place.
The mailbox is full. The porch light is off. The windows are dark in a way that doesn't feel temporary.
My chest tightens.
I knock anyway.
Nothing.
I call.
Straight to voicemail.
That's when it hits — not fear exactly, but something colder. The realization that Jude didn't leave me.
He left the situation.
And he didn't ask permission.
I sit in my car longer than necessary, phone heavy in my hand, replaying our last conversation. Every word. Every look. Every thing I didn't say because I thought there would be time.
Cassian calls while I'm still parked.
"Where are you?" he asks.
"At Jude's."
Silence on the line.
"He's gone," I say. Saying it out loud makes it real.
"How gone?"
"I don't know."
Cassian exhales slowly. "I'm coming."
When he arrives, he doesn't say I told you so. He doesn't touch me right away. He just stands beside me on the porch, reading the same emptiness I am.
"He doesn't do this lightly," Cassian says.
"No," I whisper. "He does this when he's done bleeding."
That night, I lie awake in Cassian's bed, staring at the ceiling while he sleeps beside me. His arm finds me instinctively, protective even in rest.
It should be comforting.
Instead, it feels complicated.
Because Jude didn't disappear to punish me.
He disappeared to survive me.
And that hurts in a way no argument ever could.