Chapter 61: The Edge of Silence

The hours crawl.

We keep pretending to do things—dishes that don’t need washing, rooms that don’t need cleaning. At one point, Oliver suggests we go out for a walk just to “breathe air that doesn’t feel like it’s holding its breath.” But we don’t. We stay. As if stepping outside might mean missing something.

Something like him coming back.

But he doesn’t.

Isabella barely speaks. She’s called his phone six times since breakfast and left three more voicemails, each sounding more forced and brittle than the last. She’s tried texting, emailing—even tried calling his sister again, only to get the same uncertain reply: “He hasn’t contacted me.”

By noon, she’s sitting at the kitchen island with her laptop open but untouched. Her coffee’s gone cold. Her robe replaced by a crisp blouse and jeans like she’s trying to force normal back into place. But nothing about her posture says normal. She sits stiff, jaw tight, foot tapping against the tile like a ticking bomb.

Oliver and I are curled up on