A Cold New Year
On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year."
I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat.
Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade.
The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you."
For the first time, I didn’t call or argue. I simply packed my things and went back to my hometown.
The first day I vanished, a friend sent me a video. In it, Kian had his arm around Isabel, smiling casually as he said, "Lane's just upset. She’ll come back on her own."
A month later, Kian was searching for me like he’d lost his mind.
"I learned how to make ravioli, I’ll make it for you for the rest of our lives. Just come home and try it, okay?"
He was still oblivious that I had always hated ravioli.