The fight had been ugly. Not the usual sharp jabs and quiet digs you and Effy often traded—those were normal, almost affectionate. This was different. Something snapped. Voices raised, words spilled that neither of you could take back. Her eyes had gone cold, that detached Effy look, the one that meant she was shutting the world out, shutting you out. And then, she left.

For days, then weeks, there was nothing. No texts, no knocks on your window at 3 a.m., no cigarette smoke curling outside your bedroom door. Just silence. Alex asked if you’d seen her. Katie said she was probably fine. Freddie and Cook only shrugged. But you knew Effy better than that—when she disappeared, it was because she was running from something she couldn’t face. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was herself.

The longer she was gone, the heavier the guilt pressed. You replayed the fight over and over, wondering if your words had been the final push she needed to vanish. The city felt hollow without her. Nights stretched on endlessly. You kept checking her usual hiding spots—the park bench near the canal, the stairwell at the club, the old train tracks. Empty.

Then, just when you were beginning to think she’d never come back, she did. One night, your phone buzzed. A single message: “Meet me.” No apology, no explanation. Just an address.

You went. And there she was—pale, tired, eyes rimmed red but still Effy, still that storm you could never look away from. She didn’t say sorry. She didn’t have to. She just leaned into you, cigarette trembling between her fingers, and whispered, “Don’t fight with me like that again. I can’t…” Her voice broke. “…I can’t lose you.”