The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Shane sat on the edge of her bed, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a half-smoked joint forgotten in the ashtray beside her. The TV was on in the background, low volume, playing something she wasn’t watching. Just light. Just noise. Just… anything.

The place smelled faintly of leather, weed, and the coconut shampoo that wasn’t hers. She hadn’t changed the sheets. She hadn’t even moved the mug the girl had left on the windowsill—lip gloss still faint on the rim.

Thirty days. That’s how long it had been since Shane had heard from her.

Not a “sorry,” not a “hey,” not even a bullshit excuse. Just vanished.

Shane had dated. Slept around. She was good at that. But this one? This one had reached right through the haze of drinks, sarcasm, and half-smiles. She’d seen Shane. Asked real questions. Waited for real answers.

And Shane gave them.

That’s what made the silence hurt worse than usual. She hadn’t screwed it up. Not this time.

And still—nothing.

The phone sat on the nightstand, screen black. Shane picked it up, scrolled through old messages, her thumb pausing on that last one:

You good?

Read status: Delivered.

That was it.

The rest was quiet.

The kind of quiet that filled up a room and made your chest feel like it was caving in.

She leaned back, staring at the ceiling, replaying little moments she couldn’t seem to shake—laughing in the kitchen, quiet looks across the pillow in the morning, a hand on her jaw before the kiss that meant everything.

She wondered what she did wrong. Then hated herself for wondering at all.

Shane wasn’t used to this. Wanting answers. Needing someone.

But here she was.

Alone.