A month.
Thirty days.
Seven hundred and twenty hours.
Forty-three thousand, two hundred minutes.
And not a single one of them brought a call.
Or a text.
Or a sign of him.
Not even a damn voicemail.
Joanne had lived through hunger before. She had known what it felt like to go without food. But this… this was starvation of a different kind. A hollowing out. An ache in her chest where her heart used to beat strong and steady—now just a quiet thud of confusion, pain, and relentless waiting.
At first, she made excuses for him.
He was overwhelmed.
He needed time.
Maybe he was trying to be honorable… to sort things out with Heather first.
Maybe he was hurting too.
She held on to those maybes like lifelines.
But as the weeks passed, those maybes turned into knives.
She had become a ghost in her own home. The house, once filled with warm laughter and music and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, had turned into a mausoleum.
