Pain splits my skull like an axe through kindling as consciousness drags me back to reality. My mouth tastes like I've been gargling battery acid, and the sunlight streaming through my half-closed blinds feels like needles in my eyes. I reach across the sheets, searching for Calista's cool skin, but my fingers find only empty space.
"Calista?" My voice sounds foreign, a raspy echo in the morning stillness.
The absence hits me like a physical blow. I bolt upright, ignoring the protest of my throbbing head. The spot beside me is cold, not recently vacated, but long abandoned. A hollow feeling expands in my chest, something beyond hangover angst. It's as if a vital organ has been surgically removed while I slept.
"Calista?" I call again, louder this time, desperate.
Nothing but silence answers me.
I stumble out of bed, naked and disoriented, scanning my bedroom for any sign of her, a stray earring, a strand of that blood-orange hair. But there's nothing except rumpled sheets that bear witness to what happened between us. Even her dress isn't draped over my chair where she'd tossed it.
The bathroom is empty. So is the kitchen. So is every goddamn corner of my apartment.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, running my hands through my hair as I stand in the middle of my living room.
I check my phone. No messages, no missed calls, no new contacts added. It's as if she evaporated into the night, taking every trace of her existence with her. I can't even find a lipstick smudge on my water glasses.
I sink onto my couch, a strange panic rising in my throat. This doesn't make sense. The connection we had last night wasn't just good sex, it was cosmic, transcendent, like finding a missing piece of myself I never knew was gone.
The rational part of my brain tries to assert itself. One-night stands happen. People leave without saying goodbye. But this feels different, like waking up after having your soul touched only to discover it was all a hallucination.
I throw on yesterday's clothes, not bothering with a shower despite the stale sweat clinging to my skin. My keys, wallet, phone, I grab them all in a daze, functioning on autopilot. I need answers. I need to find her.
Twenty minutes later, I'm pushing through the Nightjar's door, the familiar bell jingling overhead. The place has that strange, hollow feeling of bars in daylight, like seeing a glamorous actress without makeup under fluorescent lights.
Joey looks up from stacking clean glasses, surprise evident on his face. "Ethan? Back again? We literally just opened." He checks his watch. "It's eleven in the morning, man."
I approach the bar, gripping its edge like it might anchor me to reality. "Joey, was I here with a woman last night? Red hair, cut short?"
He snorts. "Were you here with her? Buddy, you two were practically welded together by the end of the night." His eyebrows waggle suggestively. "Never seen you hit it off with someone like that. She was all over you."
Relief floods through me. Not a hallucination then. "So she was real."
"Very real," Joey confirms, leaning forward on his elbows. "And very into you. The way she looked at you..." He whistles low. "Like you were the answer to some question she'd been asking her whole life."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. "Dude, I think I fell in love last night."
"That fast, huh?" Joey looks genuinely surprised.
"I know how it sounds," I say, running a hand through my unwashed hair. "But there was something... different about her. Something I can't explain. And this morning when I woke up, she was just... gone. Vanished. Like she was never there."
Joey's face softens with something like pity. "Classic ghosting, my friend. Happens to the best of us."
Disappointment crashes over me like a cold wave. I can feel my shoulders slumping as reality sets in.
"You think she's ghosting me?" I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
Joey gives me a sympathetic look while wiping down a glass. "She was gone before you even opened your eyes this morning, right?"
"Yeah," I admit, deflating further.
"Look, I hate to ask this, but..." Joey leans in slightly. "All those times you've done the exact same thing to women before, did you ever call them the next day?"
The question hits me like a slap. I slide onto a barstool, suddenly needing the support.
"I guess not," I mumble, staring at the polished wood of the bar.
Joey nods knowingly. "What was her name again? I remember you checking her ID last night."
"Calista Crown," I say, the name feeling sacred on my tongue.
"Crown?" Joey's brow furrows. "That's a weird last name."
"Yeah, it is," I agree absently, already pulling out my phone. My fingers hover over the screen, ready to search every social media platform for any trace of her.
Joey's hand gently covers mine before I can start typing. His expression is kind but firm.
"If she's ghosting you, just let her go, man," he says softly. "Don't go crazy over some girl who was probably just looking for something quick."
I stare at his hand for a long moment, then meet his gaze with a conviction I've never felt before about anything or anyone.
"Joey, I'm telling you, she's the one," I say, my voice steady despite my hangover and exhaustion. "I know how that sounds, but I've never felt anything like what happened last night."
He studies my face, then slowly removes his hand from mine. "Alright. Just... try not to get your hopes up too high."
I pull my phone back from Joey's grasp and start typing frantically. "I have to try."
First stop, Instagram. I find a private account with the username "CrownedCalista" the profile picture is just a close-up of an upside-down cross pendant. No way to see more without requesting to follow, which I immediately do, knowing full well I'm announcing my desperation.
"Facebook?" Joey suggests, peering over my shoulder.
"Already checked. Nothing," I mutter, scrolling further. "Wait. LinkedIn."
My finger hovers over the app icon. Once I click on her profile, she'll get a notification. She'll know I'm searching for her. But what choice do I have?
"Fuck it," I breathe, diving in.
Her profile loads, and there she is, that same face, those impossible crimson eyes staring back at me from a professional headshot. Her employment history appears, and I feel a jolt of adrenaline cut through my hangover fog.
"She works at something called the Salem Occult Museum," I tell Joey, squinting at the screen. "Current position. 'Acquisitions Specialist for Rare Artifacts.' Looks like she helps collectors find unusual pieces."
Joey leans closer, genuinely curious. "Huh. Wonder if there's money in that?"
"I'm not sure," I reply, already switching to Google. The museum's website appears, all black background with blood-red text and gothic imagery. "It opens at noon today."
I check the time: 11:23 AM. My heart rate accelerates.
"Salem's barely ten minutes away if I drive," I say, already standing up. "I gotta go grab my car."
Joey's expression shifts from curiosity to concern. "Be careful, bud."
"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving off Joey's concern while already halfway to the door. My mind's racing faster than my feet, conjuring visions of seeing her again, hearing that laugh, feeling that otherworldly connection that's still humming in my veins despite the hangover.