The diner was small, bright, and almost painfully normal. I chose a booth near the back, where I could see both the door and the counter. The waitress didn’t ask why I looked like I hadn’t slept in days. She just brought coffee and kept it full without waiting to be called.
I turned my phone back on for a moment, just long enough to check. The screen lit up instantly with messages I wasn’t ready for. “Call us.” “Where are you?” “You’ve embarrassed this family.” Each one felt heavier than the last.
Then I saw a forwarded post screenshot—someone had already started talking. My name. My “disappearance.” And the claim that I had stolen money before leaving. My stomach dropped so fast I had to grip the edge of the table.
I turned the phone face down and stared at my reflection in the window, trying to convince myself I still recognized the person looking back-
