he sunlight spilled gently over the ocean, scattering gold across the waves as Ciara leaned back in her chair, her skin warm from the sun and her heart, for once, at peace. The past few months had been a storm of work, noise, and city chaos. But now, here they were—she and Mike—on the quiet coast of Clearwater Bay, where the only sound was the rhythm of the sea and the hum of cicadas.
For the first time in years, they had taken a real vacation. Three full days to breathe, to laugh, to rediscover what they had almost forgotten: each other.
Mike stood by the balcony, staring into the horizon. His broad shoulders caught the dying light, but there was something in his stance—rigid, uneasy—that unsettled her. He had been distant all weekend, smiling only when she caught his eye, his laughter hollow, his thoughts elsewhere.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, walking up behind him.
He turned, startled, as though she had pulled him out of a deep well. "Yes," he said quickly, forcing a faint smile. "Never mind."
She frowned. "You've been quiet since yesterday. Is something wrong?"
Instead of answering, he reached for her hand, pulled her close, and kissed her. The kiss was tender, but fleeting—like a promise that he no longer believed in.
When evening fell, the vacation came to its inevitable end. The trunk of the car was packed with memories: sand-dusted towels, the scent of sunscreen, and photos of forced smiles. Ciara was ready to drive home with a heart full of nostalgia—but as she turned around, she saw Mike slipping out of their hotel room, a small bag slung over his shoulder.
"Mike?" she called. "Where are you going?"
He froze, then turned slowly. "I have to get to work. Something came up."
She glanced at her phone. "Now? It's Sunday evening."
"I know," he said, voice calm but final. "But I can't wait until tomorrow. I'll see you at home."
Before she could say more, he leaned in, kissed her forehead, and walked away.
---
The drive home was long and silent. The air felt heavy, pressing against the windshield. Ciara tried to shake off the unease crawling under her skin. Maybe it's a new project, she told herself. Maybe he's just stressed.
But when she finally arrived home, fatigue settling deep into her bones, the clock read past midnight. The house was cold and empty.
She unpacked their bags, folded his shirts neatly on the bed, and for the first time that day, allowed herself to think. Work? On a Sunday?
She sat down on the couch, the quiet buzzing in her ears. Mike's company didn't operate on weekends—she knew that better than anyone. The realization struck like ice through her veins.
Her mind began to race. Where could he have gone?
She replayed their last days together—the strange silence, his restless eyes, his nervous smile. He had been somewhere else entirely, even when he was right beside her.
Ciara got up and walked to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water she didn't drink. Her reflection in the window looked ghostly against the night. You're overthinking it, she told herself. He'll come home. He always does.
But even as she said it, she knew something was terribly wrong.
She sat there until dawn, half-expecting the sound of keys turning in the door. It never came. The clock ticked endlessly, and the silence deepened until it felt like the whole house was holding its breath.
When her phone finally rang at sunrise, she jumped—but it was only her sister checking in. Ciara stared at the screen, her hand trembling. She couldn't bring herself to tell anyone yet. Not until she knew for sure.
So she waited. All day. Then another night.
Still no call. No message. No Mike.
---
That evening, she drove past his office. It was locked, dark, abandoned. She asked around—security guards, receptionists, even his manager—but no one had seen him since Friday.
Her chest tightened. Panic crept up her throat like a rising tide.
By the time she reached the police station, her hands were shaking.
"I'd like to report a missing person," she told the officer at the front desk.
The officer looked up from his clipboard. "How long has he been gone?"
"Since yesterday," she said. "No, the day before yesterday. He left for work but—"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he interrupted gently. "We can't file a missing person report until after twenty-four hours."
Her voice faltered. "But he's never—he wouldn't just disappear!"
The officer offered a sympathetic look, but his tone remained procedural. "Give it some time. Maybe he needed space. Men do that sometimes."
She wanted to scream that Mike wasn't that kind of man, but instead she just nodded and left.
That night, Ciara sat alone in their bed, staring at the empty space beside her. The sheets still smelled faintly of him—of cologne and saltwater and something she could never name.
Her chest ached, and she whispered to the darkness, "Please come home."
But the darkness had already taken him.
And deep down, Ciara knew—something had ended the moment Mike walked out that door.
Something she could never undo.