The first pale light of dawn seeped through the curtains, spilling across the floor in muted streaks. I slipped quietly out of the house, careful not to disturb the fragile calm that now hung in the air like gossamer. The city was still mostly asleep, the streets empty except for the occasional hum of a lone car.
By the time I reached my apartment, fatigue settled into my bones. The door clicked shut behind me, the familiar scent of my space—books, faint coffee, and the faint tang of metal from my desk—welcoming yet hollow.
I dropped my bag on the floor, expecting the usual warmth of Nehra's chatter or the faint aroma of breakfast lingering from her early routines. But silence greeted me.
I frowned, moving to the kitchen. No sign of her. Not even a note. My mind ticked through possibilities—she'd stayed late at work, run an errand, or worse, had forgotten to message me in her tipsy state last night.
I sank onto the edge of the couch, rubbing my temples. "Where are you, Nehra?" I murmured, voice soft, almost to myself. A quiet unease crept in—not panic, but a sense that something was off. Her absence, trivial under normal circumstances, now carried a weight I couldn't place.
I checked my phone. No messages. Not even a trace of the night's laughter, now replaced by a suffocating quiet. I exhaled, steadying my racing thoughts. Nehra was usually fine, usually careful—but the memory of her tipsy grin last night, and the way she'd asked someone to take care of her, lingered in my mind.
Something about the morning felt heavier. I couldn't shake it.