I woke slowly, sunlight filtering through the blinds I'd forgotten to close. For a moment, I just lay there, registering the unfamiliar weight of exhaustion in my limbs, the slight crick in my neck from sleeping at an odd angle. Then memory rushed in. Isla in the rain. Her breakdown. Our conversation. The kiss.

I smiled, reaching for my phone to check the time. Almost nine. I'd slept later than usual, but that wasn't surprising given how late we'd stayed up talking. After the kiss, something had broken open between us. We'd talked for hours about everything and nothing. Her childhood. My accident. Our fears. Our hopes. Things that had seemed impossible to share before suddenly felt easy.

Eventually, her eyes had grown heavy, her words slurring with exhaustion, and I'd insisted she take the bed. I'd sleep on the couch, I told her. She'd protested weakly, but was too tired to put up much of a fight. I'd helped her to the bedroom, tucked her in, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. She'd been asleep before I even closed the door.

Now, stretching, I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was Saturday. No work. No appointments. Just a whole day to be with Isla, to make sure she was okay, to figure out what last night meant for us moving forward.

I transferred to my chair and headed for the kitchen, thinking I'd make coffee before checking on her. The apartment was quiet, peaceful this early. I started the coffee machine, then made my way to the bedroom, knocking softly on the door in case she was still asleep.

No answer.

I knocked again, a little louder. "Isla? You awake?"

Still nothing.

Frowning, I opened the door just enough to peek in. The bed was empty. Not just empty, but neatly made, as if no one had slept in it at all.

"Isla?"

I wheeled through the apartment, checking the bathroom, the spare room I used as an office, even opening the front door to look into the hallway. Nothing. No sign of her. She was gone.

I returned to the bedroom, looking for clues, for some explanation. Her wet clothes from the night before were folded on the dresser, still damp. She must have left in my clothes, then. On the nightstand was a note, written on the pad of paper I kept beside the bed.

Had to go. Thank you for last night. I'm sorry.

That was it. No explanation. No indication of where she'd gone or why. Just a quick apology that could mean anything.

I stared at the note, reading and rereading those ten words as if they might suddenly reveal some hidden meaning. As if I might find, in the curve of her handwriting or the pressure of the pen, some clue to understand what had happened.

Because something had happened. Something had changed between going to sleep with everything feeling right and waking up to find her gone.

I grabbed my phone, called her. Straight to voicemail. Texted: Hey, you okay? Woke up and you were gone.

No response.

I tried not to worry. Maybe her phone had died. Maybe she'd had an early shift at the bookstore that she'd forgotten about. Maybe she'd just needed some space after the emotional intensity of the night before.

But as the day wore on with no word from her, worry gave way to confusion, then frustration, then a dull, throbbing ache of something like betrayal. I'd thought we'd connected. Thought we'd broken through some wall between us. Thought the kiss had meant as much to her as it had to me.

Had I been wrong?

By evening, I was officially concerned. I called Mia, who I'd met briefly a few times when picking Isla up from work.

"Hey, Callum," she answered, sounding surprised. "What's up?"

"Have you heard from Isla today?"

A pause. "No. Why?"

I hesitated, not wanting to share too much of Isla's private business, even with her friend. "She was upset last night. Came to my place. But she was gone when I woke up, and I haven't been able to reach her all day."

Another, longer pause. "That sounds like her."

"What do you mean?"

"The disappearing act. She does that sometimes when things get intense. Just vanishes for a few days. Goes completely off the grid."

My stomach dropped. "She's done this before?"

"A few times since I've known her. Usually after some emotional trigger. She'll just drop out of contact, then show up again like nothing happened." Mia's voice softened. "She's not great at handling feelings, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, I noticed." I ran a hand through my hair. "Do you know where she might go?"

"No idea. She never tells me, and I've learned not to ask. It just makes her retreat more." She sighed. "Look, I know it's frustrating, but she always comes back eventually. She just needs time to process in her own way."

"By running?"

"It's what she knows." Mia sounded tired, as if they'd had this conversation before. "For what it's worth, she talks about you differently. You're the first person she's let get close in a long time."

"Doesn't feel like it right now."

"I know. Just give her time."

Time. Everyone wanted time. Isla needed time to trust. Time to believe I wouldn't leave. Time to process. Time to come back from wherever she ran to when things got too real.

But what about my time? My feelings? My need for some explanation for why she'd kiss me like her life depended on it, then disappear without a word?

I thanked Mia and hung up, no closer to finding Isla than before.

That night, I barely slept. Kept reaching for my phone, checking for messages that weren't there. Kept replaying the night before, searching for some sign, some warning that she was about to flee. I couldn't find one. There had been no indication in her eyes, her words, her kiss, that she was anything but present. That she was planning to run.

By morning, my worry had crystallized into anger. Not hot, explosive anger, but something colder, harder. The kind that forms when someone you care about hurts you in exactly the way you feared they would.

I tried calling her again. Straight to voicemail. Sent another text: Just let me know you're safe. That's all I'm asking.

Nothing.

Sunday crawled by, each hour marked by the absence of response, each minute a reminder that I'd opened myself up only to be shut out again. I tried to work, to focus on a project that was due Monday, but my mind kept drifting back to her. To the feeling of her hand in mine. The taste of her lips. The weight of her confession and the cruel irony that she'd run away before I could prove I was choosing her.

By Sunday night, anger had given way to a dull resignation. She wasn't coming back. Not today, maybe not ever. Her pattern was established—get close, get scared, run. Repeat. And I'd been stupid enough to think I might be the exception.

Monday morning, I dragged myself to work, going through the motions with clients and colleagues who thankfully didn't notice or didn't comment on my distraction. I checked my phone obsessively, hope fading a little more with each empty notification screen.

I skipped lunch, not hungry, and was about to head into an afternoon meeting when my phone buzzed. I nearly dropped it in my haste to check, heart pounding.

But it wasn't Isla. It was Theo. 

Theo: Drinks tonight? I'm buying.

I typed back.

Me: Not in the mood.

His response came immediately.

Theo: Exactly why you need drinks. 7pm at Murphy's. No excuses.

I didn't respond, shoving my phone in my pocket as I entered the conference room. But after the day I'd had, the thought of a beer and Theo's company was more appealing than going home to an empty apartment filled with reminders of Isla.

At 7:05, I wheeled into Murphy's, spotting Theo at our usual corner table. He already had two beers waiting, condensation beading on the glasses.

"You look like shit," he greeted me cheerfully.

"Thanks."

"Rough weekend?"

I took a long pull of my beer before answering. "You could say that."

Theo waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. When I didn't elaborate, he sighed. "Gonna make me drag it out of you?"

"There's nothing to drag out."

"Bullshit." He leaned forward. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'someone kicked my puppy' look. Same one you had after Kate left. Minus the alcohol poisoning."

I glared at him. "It's not like that."

"No? Then what is it like?"

I didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to admit that I'd been right all along, that loving someone meant giving them the power to hurt you. That I'd let Isla in, against my better judgment, only to have her disappear the moment things got real.

But this was Theo. He'd seen me at my absolute worst and stuck around anyway. If anyone deserved the truth, it was him.

"Isla's gone," I said finally. "Came to my place Friday night, total mess. We talked. Kissed. Seemed like we were finally on the same page. Then I woke up Saturday and she was just gone. No explanation. Won't answer calls or texts."

Theo's expression shifted from curious to concerned. "Gone as in left your place, or gone as in missing?"

"Her friend says this is a pattern. She disappears when things get intense, goes off the grid for a few days, then shows up again like nothing happened."

"That's fucked up."

"Yeah." I took another drink, the beer bitter on my tongue. "Three days now. Not a word."

"And you've tried calling? Texting?"

"Multiple times. Straight to voicemail. No response."

"Have you gone to her place? The bookstore?"

I shook my head. "What's the point? She clearly doesn't want to be found."

"The point is showing her you're not giving up that easily."

"Maybe I should give up." The words tasted sour, but they'd been circling in my head all weekend. "If this is how it's going to be every time we take a step forward, maybe it's better to cut my losses now."

Theo studied me for a long moment. "Do you love her?"

The question caught me off guard, though it shouldn't have. He'd been saying it for weeks.

"I don't know," I lied.

"Yes, you do."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Fine. Yes. I love her. Fat lot of good it's doing me."

"Then you don't give up."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is. But some things are worth fighting for."

"Even when the other person won't fight for themselves? Won't fight for us?"

"Especially then." Theo took a sip of his beer. "Look, I don't know Isla well. But from what you've told me, she's spent her whole life being left behind. Maybe she's running because she's trying to beat you to the punch. Leave before you can leave her."

I hadn't thought of it that way. Had been too caught up in my own hurt to consider that her disappearance might be about fear rather than rejection.

"So what am I supposed to do? Just wait around for her to decide I'm worth coming back to?"

"No. You go find her. Show her you're not like all the others who gave up when it got hard."

"And if she doesn't want to be found?"

"Then at least you'll know you tried. That you didn't just walk away at the first sign of trouble."

"Roll away," I corrected automatically, a weak attempt at humor.

Theo ignored it. "I'm serious, Cal. She's running, man. You gonna chase her?"

I stared into my beer, Theo's question echoing in my head. Was I going to chase her? Go after someone who clearly didn't want to be followed? Who'd walked away without explanation after the most intimate night we'd shared?

Logic said no. Pride said hell no. Self-preservation screamed absolutely fucking not.

But my heart, that traitor, whispered something else entirely.

"I don't know," I admitted finally, the words heavy with the weight of truth.

I didn't know if I had the strength to chase after someone who might just keep running. Didn't know if I could expose myself to that kind of rejection again. Didn't know if what we had—whatever it was—was worth the risk of more pain.

But I also didn't know if I could live with myself if I didn't try. If I became just one more person in Isla's life who didn't stay. Who didn't fight for her when things got hard.

One more person who left.

The silence of the past three days had been deafening. Louder than any argument, any explanation, any excuse could have been. But maybe, just maybe, there was something important hidden in that silence. Something I needed to understand before I could decide whether to chase or to let go.

I just didn't know what it was yet.