Michael trudged toward his apartment, the wind howling through the narrow streets. The neighborhood was alive with the usual chaos—kids shouting, cars blaring horns, the distant rumble of the L train. But to him, it was all muted, like he was underwater. His building loomed ahead, a faded brick structure with a flickering streetlamp out front. He glanced up at the dark windows of his third-floor unit, and his stomach twisted. Every corner of that place held Emily’s ghost—her favorite mug on the counter, the scarf she’d left draped over the couch, the faint scent of her lavender shampoo in the bathroom.
He’d found the note six months ago, after a grueling night shift at the hospital. As an OB-GYN, Michael was used to long hours, but that shift had been brutal—two emergency C-sections and a patient who nearly didn’t make it. He’d come home exhausted, expecting Emily to be there, maybe reading on the couch or humming in the kitchen. Instead, the apartment was empty. He’d crashed on the bed, too tired to think, and only noticed the note hours later, scrawled on a scrap of paper on the kitchen table: “If you love me, don’t look for me.” No explanation, no hint of what went wrong. Just those sharp, final words.
For days, he’d torn through the city, checking her favorite coffee shop, the park where they’d walk on Sundays, even the library where she’d spend hours lost in novels. He called every contact he could think of, but Emily had no close friends in Chicago, no family she ever mentioned. It was like she’d built a life with him from scratch, leaving no ties to whatever came before. Eventually, he stopped searching, convinced she’d left by choice. Maybe she’d gone back to an old life, an ex, a place she’d never told him about. But deep down, he couldn’t believe she’d walk away without a word. Not his Emily.