Your phone rings three times before going silent.

Then a voicemail.

You almost ignore it — it’s late, and you’ve had a long shift — but something about the number feels familiar.

You press play.

"Hi. This is Bizzy Montgomery... I know this is strange. I just… I didn’t know who else to call. Addison’s missing. She left the house hours ago and—she’s not answering. I found something in the bathroom. I think she relapsed. I—I know you’re not together anymore, but if anyone knows where she might go, I thought it could be you. Please. Call me back.”

Your breath catches.

The air feels too still.

Addison. Missing.

Addison — who you haven’t seen in weeks. Addison — who swore she was fine the last time you saw her. Addison — who has always hidden her worst days behind a perfect smile.

And now… she’s just gone.

You grab your keys. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Because whatever happened between you — however badly it ended — you still know her.

You still love her, even if it's in a quiet, helpless way.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re the only one who still knows where she goes when the pain gets too loud.

You text her mom: “I’m going to look. If I find her, I’ll call you. I promise.”

And then you’re out the door, heart pounding, already tracing back every place she might run to — every piece of her you still carry like a map.

Because this isn’t about being exes anymore.

This is about saving her.