It doesn’t track.

Her first message must’ve come through while I was visiting with Hallie and Ruby. I didn’t see it. I didn’t respond. Then I left my damn phone sitting on Courtney’s desk like a careless idiot.

I press her name with shaking hands. The dial tone never even kicks in. Just a cold, sterile voice telling me she’s unavailable.

Straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again.

Still nothing.

She blocked me?

Magnolia—my girl, my future, my fucking heart—blocked me like I’m some stranger she’s trying to forget.

Only last night, we were on FaceTime before bed. She was curled up under her favorite throw, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep. We talked about how much we missed each other—how hard the distance was, how much we couldn’t wait to close it. Just like always. She told me to dream about her. I said I already was.

I swipe back to our thread, fingers numb, and scroll. Just this morning, I left her a voice message—my usual good morning, I love you, can’t wait to talk later. And now this?

This can’t be happening.

But it is. And it steals the air right out of my lungs.

My vision blurs. I stumble toward the private bathroom tucked inside my office, the walls closing in with every step. My hand wraps around the handle before I shove the door open and close it behind me, the soft click of the lock sounding deafening in the silence.

I lurch toward the sink, gripping the edges so tight my knuckles go white. My reflection stares back at me—haunted eyes, pale skin, chest rising and falling like I’ve run a bloody marathon. I don’t recognize myself.

I turn on the tap and splash cold water over my face, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. The pressure in my chest keeps building, a hot, aching weight that settles behind my ribs like a ticking bomb.

And then I crack.

I double over with a sound I didn’t even know I could make—half-growl, half-sob—as my knees hit the cold tile. I fold forward, elbows braced against my thighs, fingers tugging at my hair.

What the fuck just happened?

I’ve met someone here in Charleston, and he makes me happy. He doesn’t want commitment, and that’s what I need right now. I want to be with him.

It doesn’t add up. None of it does.

My heart slams against my chest, loud and frantic. My stomach lurches. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m sick.

I stay there, hunched and shaking, long after the nausea fades. The silence wraps around me like a straitjacket, pressing in, stealing what little breath I have left.

I am not okay.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this kind of not okay before.