When I wake up the next morning, Jesse’s gone. There are no obvious signs, other than he isn’t physically present, but the apartment feels cold and empty. I make the bed, something I never do, but deep down I know I’m stalling for time because I know he’s gone for good.

Don’t ask me how I know, because I don’t think I can put it into words. Mostly it’s the twisted knot that’s been in my stomach since Jesse agreed to take the probation deal thirteen days ago.

A quick scan of my apartment confirms my suspicions. His toothbrush no longer rests alongside mine in the cup, his black duffle bag is no longer slung over the dining room chair, and his grey hoodie no longer hangs on the peg.

With a sick feeling, I walk into the kitchen where a scribbled note lies on the counter. I read it three times before crumpling it and throwing it into the trashcan.

Five words. Seventeen years of friendship, of love, of memories, and all I get—all I’m worthy of—are five words.

I’m sorry. I love you.

But he doesn’t love me. He couldn’t possibly, because you don’t run away from someone you love. You don’t turn your back on someone you say you care about more than anything in the world. You don’t leave a note on a half-torn takeout menu. You don’t leave. Period.

The walls begin to close in around me, and I slide in my sock-bottomed feet onto the floor. Why would he do this now after we only just started?

I wrap my arms around my bent knees, as crocodile tears form beneath my eyelids and slowly begin to slide down my cheeks. No, I tell myself. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t.

Dragging my sleeve across my nose, I crawl on all fours toward the table where my cell is charging. I tug on the wire and catch my phone right before it hits the ground. Through tears, I dial his number, but it doesn’t ring. When his voicemail picks up, when I hear his recorded voice—This is Jesse. Leave a message.—I throw my phone in frustration.

He can’t shut me out. He can’t ignore me. He can’t make me go away.

I love him. He made me love him. He can’t leave me now.

* * *

My mom intervenes a week later. She finds me curled in bed with the covers pulled overhead. I haven’t showered in eight days. I haven’t opened the blinds. Or gone to my classes. I’ve barely eaten. All I do—all I’m capable of— is calling and texting Jesse. He still hasn’t returned any of my messages.

He’s safe—of that much I can be sure—because I checked his bank account and he made several purchases at various gas stations along the East coast. My best guess is he’s heading to North Carolina to visit his dad, but I don’t know why. He was supposed to start his probationary period five days ago.

“Riley.” My mom’s voice infiltrates the safe haven of sheets and blankets.

“Go away.” I grapple for the blankets as she tries to snatch them away.

“Riley Ann.” Her voice grows sterner. “Get out of bed this instant.”

I squint as she peels back the curtain and the morning sun shines in. “Shit,” I curse. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

She moves to the other window and opens it. “Your landlord gave me a key.”

“He can’t do that!” I shout, stumbling out of bed. “That’s illegal.”

“Being that my name is on the lease as a co-signer, I highly doubt that.”

Fuck. “Why are you here?” I run a hand through my oily, tangled hair.

“Liza called me.”

That bitch.

“And I’m glad she did, seeing the state you’re in.” She peers at me, at Jesse’s dirty grey Jordan t-shirt that I found in the hamper and have been wearing for the past seven days. “When is the last time you bathed, Riley?”

I shrug.

“What’s going on?” She carefully balances on the edge of the bed. “Liza said you haven’t been in class all week and that you’re not returning her calls.”

I shrug again.

“Riley Ann.” My mom’s voice rises. “You’re scaring me. Are you sick? Are you hurt? Are you all right?”

“No, Mom.” I shake my head slowly as the tears begin to stream down my cheeks. “I’m not all right.”