The place was clean, quiet, and temporary.
There were two chairs, a narrow sofa, a small table, and a bedroom with white walls.
Nothing in it belonged to a shared history.
That was why I liked it.
I set my keys on the counter and checked my phone.
There were seven missed calls.
Three from Logan.
Two from Chelsea.
One from a number I didn’t recognize.
The last was a voicemail from Logan, recorded at 9:17 that morning.
“Dad, please call me.
I don’t understand what’s happening.”
His voice sounded strained, but not angry.
I played the message twice.
Then I deleted it.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because I cared enough to understand that if I answered while my heart was still raw, I might say something meant to wound him.
And I had spent six years swallowing words.
I didn’t want the first honest ones to come out like weapons.
