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On the dining table was a single sheet of white paper:
“I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”
“What?” I whispered.
A sinking feeling spread through me. I rushed to the closet—empty. No shirts, no pants, even his shoes were gone.
The bathroom? His favorite cologne, shaving cream, even his towel—gone. I yanked open his drawer in the entryway. Nothing.
He was gone. For real.
Why? How?
I replayed last night in my head.
