𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 | 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟕

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 |
𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃.

Then more days. And still—nothing.

No text. No call. No explanation. Nothing.

It was like he vanished. Like someone had reached into the world and plucked Rafe out of it, leaving only a ghost behind. His name no longer echoed in the halls, his seat remained cold and untouched. His scent was gone from the air, his voice from my memory, and it terrified me how quickly silence had replaced him.

And the school... they said nothing. No announcement. No absence notice. Nothing. Like he had never been there. Like I had imagined it all.

I asked Lucas first. He was the only one I thought would know something—anything—but he looked worse than I did, if that was even possible. He was pale, jittery, kept biting his nails.He told me he hadn't heard from Rafe either. "I don't know, Catalina," he kept repeating. "I don't fucking know."

I didn't believe him at first. I pressed harder. Demanded details. Called him late at night. Nothing. He broke down in front of me once, crying, swearing, pacing back and forth and asking me if I thought Rafe was alive.

I tried going to Rafe's place. I stood outside the building for fifteen minutes before I could force my legs to move. The house was empty. Like... really empty. Not just 'he packed up and left' empty—but deserted. Cleared out. The silence there felt heavier than any silence I'd ever known.

I asked the principal. I asked the professors. Nothing. They didn't even look surprised. One of the professors said she thought he dropped out. Another shrugged and muttered something about "personal matters." Every answer chipped away at the inside of me.

He didn't just leave. He evaporated.

And still, every night, I called him. At first, just once or twice. Then more. I left voicemails—at first calm, then panicked, then shattered. I cried with the phone pressed to my ear. I whispered, "Please, just let me know you're okay."

I even figured out his parents number. I don't know how I did it—I spent an entire night digging through school records, LinkedIn profiles, old emails. I called them three times. No answer. On the fourth try, someone picked up, then hung up immediately. The fifth went straight to voicemail. After that, nothing.

I asked my father. And that was the worst part—he actually was friends with Rafe's parents. They'd spoken multiple times. Dad said he thought Rafe was brilliant. Said he saw a bit of himself in him, even. But when I brought it up, he just gave me this... quiet look. Like he pitied me. And told me he didn't know anything either.

By then, I was unraveling.

My nights were spent clinging to the shirt Rafe left at my place. It still smelled like him, faintly—musk, mint. I cried into it like it could answer me. Like it could bring him back.