She never came back.

I don't know what I was expecting when I watched her walk out of my bedroom, but falling asleep drunk as fuck, staring at my black phone screen wasn't it. I was practically seeing double, and even though my blood was drowning in enough whiskey to make my world spin, there was one thing that was clear as fucking day—she was gone.

She's been gone for a while. Or, at least it feels like it, but that might just be because I've been distracting myself enough not to have to think about specifics anymore. I don't want to think about how long it's been since she looked up at me like she didn't even want me to touch her. I don't want to think about how many times I've picked up my phone and almost called her. I don't want to think about the number of times I damn near spiraled and drove to her apartment. I don't want to think about the fact that even though it's been five days since she walked away, the echo of her is still here, feeding me that dangerous bit of hope that maybe she's not really gone, that maybe she'll come back.

I held onto that hope on the first day when Micah and Luke took me out to a bar in Creekview, a run-down town twenty minutes south of Pullman. It was a shit hole, but they had cheap beer and whiskey strong enough to make me forget why I was even sitting there in the first place. Luke bought me enough liquor to drown myself in, and by the time we walked out of the pub, I was stumbling so hard that he and Micah had to practically carry me back to the Uber. Which, thinking back now, was pretty fucking impressive since they both went drink for drink with me. We were all sloshed, damn near numb to the world when Luke called shotgun and Micah dropped down into the backseat beside me. Micah's not one to talk about feelings, which is why, even drunk off my ass, I was surprised when he gave a slurred speech in the back of the Uber about how much he looks up to me. He rambled on about how someday he wants to be as good of a man as me, about how I'm more family to him than I'll ever know, about how he knows things will work out for me, even if they're pretty fucked up right now.

He shook his head with a short laugh as if he couldn't believe he was actually giving me a pep talk. When he ran a rough hand through his hair, I knew that for him, it was his way of trying to help me, to be there for me in his own way, in the only way he really could. It didn't last long, though, because even drunk as fuck, Micah doesn't keep his walls down for long, no matter who you are. I'm pretty sure I blacked out after that because the last thing I remember from that night was Luke laughing his ass off about how soft Micah was getting and Micah knocking him in the back of the head.

I held onto the hope that maybe she was struggling as much as I was on the second day. We had an away game, and as I sat in the airport terminal, hungover and numb, I scrolled through her Instagram for two hours. I'd scrolled so many times I'd practically memorized the captions to each picture, and when I got back down to the very first one—the one of her and her dad—I scrolled back up, desperately hoping that she'd finally post something to her story. To give me some idea of how she's doing.

She never did.

I managed to push it all down by tip-off, to focus some of that built-up anger and frustration into my game, but a few hours later, I was four beers deep, trying to drink enough to forget my own fucking name while the rest of them were celebrating. I was pretty fucking successful, and by the time I stumbled back into the room, I was pulling out my phone as I kicked off my shoes.

The resolve to give her space shattered with that last drink at the bar, but before I could press call on her contact, James snatched my phone out of my hands and shook his head.

"No, T. You can't. You said you wouldn't."

I did say that. I was five whiskeys deep at O'Malley's the night she left when I gave a shitty pep talk to myself about not breaking, giving her space, letting her process this, and giving her time to realize that she still wanted me, that she wanted to come back. It ended with James nodding along sympathetically as he downed his drink in solidarity, and when I shook off the feeling of the liquor burning my throat, I promised myself that I wasn't going to do something stupid—like call her in the middle of the night and beg her to come back to me.

But that was the first night, the night I was still selfishly holding onto the hope that she'd break before I could, and two days later, things had changed. Namely, the realization that this wasn't some kind of fucked up nightmare was finally starting to set in. Waking up without her small body cuddled up against me, or smelling the vanilla apple spice of her whenever I'd nuzzle my face in her neck or she'd climb onto my lap, or the sound of her gasps, and laughs, and squeals, and moans—all of it, I fucking missed all of it, and suddenly, the idea of calling her and trying to talk her out of this was the only thing that made sense.

"Give me my phone, J." I held out my hand, watching him expectantly. He considered me for a long moment before taking a step back and shaking his head.

"Sleep on it, man. If you still want to call her in the morning, then go for it, but you're drunk, and it's late, it's almost three in the morning, and—"

I reached for the phone, nearly snatching it from his hand, but my drunken movements were slower, heavier, and when he juked my hand and tossed it across the room to Micah, I turned and glared at him.

"Give me my phone."

"He's right, T. Ryan's probably asleep anyway. You should just wait until—"

I walked toward him, but his eyes widened when he realized I wasn't fucking around, and he tossed the phone across the bed to Luke, who looked down at it wide-eyed as if Micah had just thrown him a live grenade.

I didn't say anything as I walked toward him, and when he took a step back, and then another, I watched his drunken mind slowly process his options here. He could give me the phone, or I could take it from him.

I was a step away when his eyes flashed in panic, and he looked over his shoulder, dropping my phone into the glass of water on the nightstand.

I never got to call her, but then again, she never called me, either.

The third day was a blur of miles on the track—mostly because Coach could tell I was hungover as fuck, and also because somehow, out there on the icy asphalt, things finally didn't feel so fucking heavy. I don't know how long I ran, but I was throwing up in the trash can on the sidelines by the end. I skipped the bar that night, opting to stay in and crash in bed early, trying desperately not to think about how fucking empty the bed felt without her in it.

The fourth day felt better, at first.

I finally manned up and called my mom back. I'd been avoiding her calls since it happened, not wanting to have to explain why she'd probably never see Abby again. I couldn't avoid it forever, though, which is why I went over before practice. The house was quiet when I walked in, aside from the soft hum of the TV in the living room. I dropped my gym bag down on the floor by the door and walked through the hall, stopping dead when the new frame caught my eye as I passed. It was right in the middle of the wall, shiny and new, and when I leaned down to get a better look, my heart stopped in my chest.

She was there, right in front of me, beaming at me—deep blue eyes crinkled in a smile, cheeks slightly flushed. She looked radiant, even frozen in time. I stood there for a while, taking in the picture that somehow blended so perfectly with the rest as if it was meant to be there, and when my throat tightened as I took a step back, the footsteps from the kitchen pulled me away from her.

"Hi, honey. I didn't know you were coming by." Mom beamed at me as she pulled me down in a tight hug, and when she pulled back, her eyes scanned the room behind me. "Is Abby here, too?"

"No." I cleared my throat and shook my head.

"Oh, you'll have to give her this for me then." She hurried past me, grabbing for the familiar maroon scarf hanging from the coat rack near the door. "She left it at granddad's party."

It hit me all at once—the vanilla apple spice, the soft material spilling over my fingers, the flash of her wearing it, smiling up at me in the passenger seat of my truck.

I'd held it in pretty well since I watched her walk away. I'd pushed it down and numbed myself with enough liquor to make me forget my own name, but when I looked down and met my mom's searching gaze, I knew she knew.

"She's not coming back?"

I looked away and coughed, focusing on pushing down the knot in my throat, but when her soft murmur of my name registered as she pulled me into a tight hug, I couldn't seem to stop it from fucking wrecking me. All of it. The memory of her—wrapped up in my bedsheets, the taste of her cookie tongue, her warm laugh echoing around us, the feel of her smooth thigh under my thumb as I drew shapes on the exposed skin, her soft snores when she'd fall asleep on my chest, her nightly chocolate milk, her six million different highlighters left around my room after she'd study—of her.

I tried to hold it in, I really fucking did, but when my mom's whispered words registered, I broke.

"I'm going to miss her, too, honey."

I cried like a bitch. I cried like I was five again, finding refuge in my mom's lap, and yet somehow, breaking down in my mom's small embrace as she held me close was the first time since Abby left that I didn't feel so fucking alone.

Alone. I guess that's something that I'll have to get used to.