And then he was gone.
No suitcase. No explanation. Just the photo tucked into his coat pocket—and a door that never quite closed behind him.
The next morning, I woke to an empty, cold bed, a silent kitchen, and no missed calls.
It felt like grief—but somehow worse. I didn’t even know what I was mourning yet.
I called Logan again and again. I sent texts until my fingers ached. I left voicemail after voicemail, begging him to answer. None of them were returned.
Friends told me to give him space. His family said maybe he’d had some kind of breakdown. My sister suggested the worst—that he was having an affair. But one name kept echoing in my mind: Vivian.
Who was she to him now? What had she written?
What kind of woman reaches out after all these years and pulls a husband straight out of his life?
Weeks dragged on, then months. Six of them.
When people asked where Logan was, I smiled and lied without hesitation.
