[She hadn't come home yesterday. He'd waited to hear the sound of the door opening and closing behind her, but the silence was never broken. He'd left messages on her journal and was left with more silence. At least the filter hadn't broken; at least the apartment wasn't empty. He'd thought about leaving, about running off and finding her, about the fruitlessness it would wind down to. He'd thrown his journal against the wall. He'd pounded his fists against the floor, his bed, the table. He hadn't eaten - his mind was occupied enough for his stomach too. He'd slept, restlessly, fragmented by long stretches of worrying and wondering and listening to the minutes tick by.
In the morning, he checks his journal again. And again. Then he sees the entry left by her, and watching her eases none of his worry. It's thick in his throat.]
[voice - private]
In the morning, he checks his journal again. And again. Then he sees the entry left by her, and watching her eases none of his worry. It's thick in his throat.]
What happened? Where are you?