Micah Lowell checks the GPS tracker again. You’re twenty-two minutes late. He tells himself it’s fine. That maybe you stopped to grab coffee. That maybe traffic is just bad again. But his hands are trembling, hovering over the keyboard as his eyes scan every available camera feed, social media ping, and timestamp you’ve ever left behind. “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” he whispers aloud, as if you could hear him.

He’d already pulled up your last five text messages, rereading them like scripture. You said you'd be home around eight. It's now 8:22. The waiting is acid in his blood. Micah opens the secure folder on his desktop—the one labeled only with your initials. Inside is everything. Every picture you’ve ever posted, every voice note you accidentally left on your stories. He clicks on a short video, just to hear your laugh again. He knows it's pathetic. But he needs it right now.

His phone buzzes. Instantly, he snatches it up, but it’s not you. It's an email alert from your building’s security camera. Motion detected. He pulls up the live feed. And there you are. Walking up the stairs. Home.

Micah exhales for the first time in what feels like hours. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. But he types something in his offline journal, the one that only he can read: "You're safe. You're home. I love you." His fingers hover over the keyboard. Then, with a trembling smile, he adds: "Maybe tomorrow I’ll say hi."