Thirty nine

Thirty nine
Fallon
The house felt too big without him.
Which was ridiculous.
Reid and I barely spent time together when he was home, moving around each other like polite strangers. Separate rooms, separate lives. We’d mastered the art of coexistence — the kind where you shared space but not warmth. The kind where silence was easier than words.
But now that he was gone —
I felt the absence everywhere.
It was in the cool, empty side of the bed in his bedroom that hadn’t been touched in days. In the faint, lingering scent of his cologne on the jacket he’d left draped over the chair. In the echo of my own footsteps on the marble floors, where his used to fall in rhythm beside mine even when we were fighting — as usual.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was deafening.
I told myself not to care. But that was a lie.
Work Doesn’t Help
I threw myself into work, desperate for distraction.
I set up my camera in the sun-drenched bathroom, arranging products in perfect symmetry on the counter. The lighting was soft, the lines clean — just the right balance of aspirational and relatable. I hit record and launched into my morning routine, my voice calm and polished. I smiled the way I was supposed to, hit all the right notes, but—
I flubbed the voiceover three times because my mind kept drifting.
“Sorry, guys,” I muttered into the mic after yet another mistake. “Let’s try that again.”
I tried again. And again. And again.
Even in the perfect take, my smile felt forced. Too tight. Too brittle.
I moved on to editing a vlog, thinking maybe I’d lose myself in the mindless rhythm of cutting and splicing footage. But I kept checking my phone.
Every buzz made my heart jump.
Every time, it wasn’t him.
I opened my inbox, hoping to get through at least a few emails. But I couldn’t focus. Every notification had me hoping for his name.
When it finally lit up — it wasn’t him.
It was yet another brand that wanted to work with me.
I put my head in my hands and let out a slow, frustrated breath.
This was getting ridiculous.
The Internet Isn’t Helping Either
In a moment of weakness, I opened Instagram.
Big mistake.
My notifications were overflowing. Every post, every comment, every tag — it was all the same.
@FanAccount123: “Still not over that kiss! ❤️🔥”
@ShippingReidFallon: “Reid and Fallon are my ultimate OTP!”
@GossipPage: “When’s the baby announcement, guys? 👀”
The fairytale they’d built around us was getting stronger by the day.
If only they knew.
I scrolled through our tagged photos — pictures of that red carpet kiss, of the way his hand lingered on my waist, of the way we smiled like we belonged to each other.
The image was so perfect.
The reality was anything but.
I kept scrolling until the ache in my chest became too sharp. Then I closed the app and tossed my phone onto the bed.
But even looking away didn’t help. The damage had already been done.
The Group Chat Knows Everything
My phone buzzed again — this time, the group chat.
Mia: Still no word from the absentee husband?
Layla: Maybe he’s planning a surprise?
Mia: Or maybe he’s just being a typical emotionally unavailable billionaire.
I sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Me: He texted. Said he’s busy. That’s it.
Mia: Ooooh girl. I’d set his stuff on fire.
Layla: Same.
Their loyalty was comforting. But it didn’t fix the ache in my chest.
The House Feels Empty
The day slipped by in fragments — long stretches of silence broken by the occasional creak of the house settling. I wandered from room to room, but no space felt right.
The kitchen was too sterile. The living room was too still.
His office door was closed. I stood in front of it for far too long, my hand hovering near the handle before I pulled it back. I didn’t go in.
It felt wrong without him there.
Instead, I went to my room and tried to distract myself with a book. But I couldn’t focus on the words. I tried Netflix, but I kept pausing the episode to check my phone.
Everywhere I went, I felt him. And the spaces where he wasn’t.
The Breaking Point
Hours passed.
The silence stretched.
I paced the house, moving from room to room like a ghost. The clock ticked too loud. The wind outside rattled the windows. The house was too empty, too quiet.
I thought about calling him.
But what would I even say?
I hate this? I miss you? I don’t even know why I care this much?
Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, my phone heavy in my hand. My thumb hovered over his name, my heart pounding harder than it should have.
Finally, I caved.
Me: Where are you?
The message sent. The read receipt didn’t appear.
I stared at my phone until my vision blurred, the weight of his silence pressing down on me —
And knew this wasn’t just frustration anymore.
It was something far more dangerous.
It was fear.