The Missing Love Quote.
The day of the party had finally arrived. The air buzzed with anticipation, the house adorned with glittering decorations, and the scent of freshly prepared dishes wafting from the kitchen. In just a few hours, my guests—VIPs, close friends, and everyone I held dear—would walk through the door, laughter and music filling the halls. Everything was perfect.
Almost everything.
One thing was still missing: the love quote I had written for Favour.
I'd poured my heart into those words weeks ago, crafting each line with care, ensuring it captured everything I felt for her. But now, as the clock ticked relentlessly toward 8 PM, the letter was nowhere to be found. Panic clawed at my chest. It was already 10 AM—time was slipping away.
I could have easily typed another message on my phone, but it wouldn't be the same. The words I'd scribbled on that paper had come from a place no digital screen could replicate. They were raw, unfiltered, real. So I began my frantic search.
My room was the first battlefield. I tore through my wardrobe, flinging shirts and trousers aside, my fingers scrambling between folded fabrics. Nothing. I dropped to my knees, peering under the bed, where dust bunnies and forgotten socks lurked. Still nothing. The closet was next—drawers yanked open, pockets of jackets turned inside out. I even checked behind the mirror, half-expecting the letter to be taped there like some misplaced treasure map.
Nothing.
Frustration boiled inside me, hot and unrelenting. Where was it? I had been so careful, so sure of where I'd left it. Had I misplaced it? Had it vanished into thin air?
With no other options, I stormed out of my room and headed straight for Mom's. Maybe, just maybe, I'd left it there by mistake.
The door was unlocked—a small mercy. I slipped inside, my eyes darting around the familiar space. Her room smelled faintly of lavender, the curtains drawn just enough to let in slivers of sunlight. I started with the obvious places: her shoes lined neatly by the door, her closet packed with colorful fabrics, her handbags hanging on hooks. I rifled through them, my movements growing more desperate with each passing second.
Nothing.
I checked her bedside table, lifting books and trinkets, then moved to the mirror, hoping against hope. Still nothing.
Then my gaze landed on her desk.
It was locked.
My jaw clenched. Of course it was. I scanned the room for keys, my fingers brushing over surfaces, lifting small boxes, checking beneath her pillows. No luck.
Time was running out.
I made a decision.
Grabbing a hammer from the toolbox in the hallway, I returned and, with a sharp exhale, brought it down on the lock. The metal groaned, then gave way with a satisfying crack. The drawer slid open.
And there it was.
My love quote.
Relief flooded through me, so intense it nearly made my knees weak. I snatched it up, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline. But then—confusion. How had it gotten here? I didn't remember putting it in Mom's desk. Had I dropped it? Had it somehow found its way here without me noticing?
Questions swirled in my mind, but there was no time to dwell. The party was hours away, and I still had a million things to do.
I was about to leave when something else caught my eye.
A big black book, sitting on the shelf.
The cover bore a single word, etched in faded gold letters:
SECRETS.
My fingers twitched with curiosity. It looked old, as if it had been sitting there for years, untouched. I reached for it, my pulse quickening. What was inside? Why had I never noticed it before?
Just as my fingers brushed the spine, my phone rang.
The sound was so sudden, so jarring, that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I fumbled for it, my heart hammering, and looked at the screen.
Mom.
My blood ran cold.
Woah.
Did she know I was in her room? Was she watching me somehow? A wave of paranoia crashed over me, my fingers trembling. I couldn't answer—not yet. I had to fix everything first.
I shoved the book back onto the shelf, my mind racing. The desk was broken, the room slightly disturbed. I had to make it look untouched.
But as I hurried to put everything back in place, one thought lingered:
What secrets did that book hold?
And why did I feel like I wasn't supposed to find it?
The Call.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing. Its shrill, insistent tone cut through the silence of the room like a knife, demanding attention I couldn't afford to give—not yet. My hands were full, scrambling to put everything back in its place: the overturned chair, the scattered papers, the faint traces of chaos that might betray what had really been happening here. Sweat prickled at my temples as I worked, my breath uneven, my movements frantic. Just a little longer. The ringing continued, a relentless soundtrack to my panic.
Finally—finally—the room looked normal again. Or close enough. I snatched the phone from where it had been abandoned on the desk, my fingers trembling slightly as I swiped to answer.
"David, what the hell?" Mom's voice was a whip crack, sharp and furious. "I've been calling you for ages! For God's sake, where did you keep your phone?"
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice into something resembling calm. "Sorry, Mom. I was busy. Really sorry."
But she wasn't fooled. There was a beat of silence, then her tone shifted, suspicion dripping into every word. "David… why are you breathing so hard? Are you in trouble again? Or—" A pause, loaded with memory. "Are you doing something stupid like last time?"
Last time. The words sent a jolt through me. Last time, I'd been seconds away from losing myself in the warmth of one of the maids, her breath hot against my neck, her hands tugging at my shirt—until Mom had walked in. The memory of her horrified face, the screaming, the aftermath… it still made my stomach twist.
I clenched my jaw. "No, Mom. Nothing like that. I was working out when your call came in. Didn't notice it in time."
A sigh crackled through the speaker. "Alright. If you say so." But the tightness in her voice told me she didn't believe me. Not really. She just wasn't here to prove I was lying. For now, that was enough.
Then, before I could steady my racing heart, she dropped the bomb.
"Hey, David… I'm sorry, but I won't be coming home for a while. Not until I finish up a job."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My throat tightened. "Mom," I whispered, the word barely audible. "Are you… are you leaving me behind? Like Dad did? Like you did when I was eight?"
The memories surged forward, unbidden. Eight years old, standing in the doorway as Mom hugged me goodbye, promising she'd be back soon. But "soon" had turned into three years—three years of waiting, of watching Dad drown in his grief, of caretakers who never stayed long enough to matter. Three years of feeling like I didn't belong anywhere.
Mom's voice snapped me back to the present. "Listen, David. You're grown now. I won't hide things from you anymore." A deep breath. "I'm going overseas. It's a big job—the one your dad was working on before he died."
My chest ached. Dad's death was still a fresh wound, a shadow I couldn't shake.
"I can't say how long it'll take," she continued. "Maybe three years. Maybe less. But I promise I'll come home after. Okay?" Her voice softened, just a little. "I've sent money to my account. If you need anything, just use my card. Get whatever you want. Alright?"
The line went quiet, waiting for my response. But what could I say? History was repeating itself, and I was powerless to stop it.
"Okay, Mom," I managed, the words splintering as they left my lips. A pause. Then she continued, her tone rehearsed, as if she'd scripted this moment to spare us both.
"I left the card on my bed. You can get it there." Her breath hitched, just slightly. "You also don't need to worry about paying the maids and the workers. I'll still be doing that. And your new school—I've paid up everything completely. Until you graduate, you won't need to pay anything."
The weight of her words pressed down on me. This wasn't just a conversation; it was a transfer, a passing of the torch I didn't feel ready to hold. "Okay, Mom," I whispered again, my voice hollow.
But she wasn't done. "David," she said, and I could almost see her steeling herself on the other end, "don't be sad, all right? Besides, you always talked about being on your own. Now you finally can."
A bitter laugh clawed its way up my chest. "I did, Mom," I shot back, too quickly, "but not like this. It's too early. I don't think I can do it. Dad's gone, and you're my only parent left." The admission hung between us, raw and unvarnished.
Silence. Then her voice softened, the way it used to when I was small and skinned my knees. "I know, son. But it's time for you to take up some responsibilities. Time for you to be strong. Time for you to be the man of the house." A promise, fragile as glass, followed: "I will come back, all right? But till then… just be safe. Take care. Love you."
The tears came then, hot and relentless. "Love you too, Mom," I choked out.
And just like that, the line went dead.
To be Continued.