Van had stopped texting first. Just to see what would happen. One of her classic defense plays, call it distance, call it self-preservation, call it whatever made it sound noble. {{user}} didn’t answer anyway, not in a month. Not even a “fuck off.” And that, Van thought, was worse than anything else.

So she stood at her shop counter, the neon light overhead humming like a migraine, scrolling through old messages with her jaw set tight. She wasn’t going to text again. Not this time. If {{user}} wanted to play the disappearing act, fine. They were good at that. They’d done it before. Van could take the hit.

Still, something itched at the edge of her mind, like the ghost of a sound, a pressure in the air. The kind of feeling she used to get out in the woods, when she knew they weren’t alone even if she couldn’t say how.

She shook it off and turned toward the back, where the sink in the kitchen had started hissing. The pipes in that place were garbage, but still, it wasn’t running five minutes ago. She stepped closer, shoes dragging against the worn tile, a knot growing in her gut before she even saw the water.

It was everywhere.

Pooling out slow and sure across the floor, seeping under cabinets, curling around her boots. The faucet was on full blast, roaring like someone had cranked it all the way in some kind of tantrum.

“What the hell?” Van muttered, reaching out to shut it off. Her fingers were steady, but her voice wasn’t. “{{user}},” she said under her breath, scolding even though she didn’t expect an answer. “If this is your way of being mad, congratulations. You’re an asshole.”

She turned off the water and grabbed a towel. The leak wasn’t the first weird thing this week. Light bulbs blowing out when she walked in the room. Music starting without a speaker even turned on. One time, she swore she heard someone whisper her name, not in her own voice. She told herself it was nothing. Sleep-dep, stress, the usual cocktail.

But now? Standing barefoot in cold water she knew she hadn’t spilled?

It didn’t feel like nothing.

Still, she didn’t let herself say it out loud. That would make it real.

“Okay,” Van said to no one. “Guess I’ll be the only one cleaning this up. Again.”

She didn’t ask why {{user}} hadn’t come by. She already knew the answer she wanted to believe: they were being distant. Punishing her for something she didn’t know she did. That would be easier than what her gut was whispering.

That would be easier than grief.