Chapter 196: The Day My Sanity Clocked Out
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I couldn’t help but grin as soon as I opened my eyes that Sunday morning. Then it hit me...Damien was coming home today. I quickly shot upright, causing the blanket to tumble off the bed in a messy heap, as if even my bedding was getting ready for the big day.
"Okay."
Looking around the dorm, I saw morning light streaming through the half-open curtains, lighting up every speck of dust floating in the air like it was personally blaming me for my neglect.
"Everything needs a clean."
Did it really? Not exactly.
But was that going to stop me? Nope!
For the next three hours, I turned into a one-person cleaning crew. I vacuumed, the machine roared like it was offended at every bit of dust it found. I pushed it around with all the determination I could muster, believing a clean carpet could somehow make the day better.
I dusted everything. Every shelf, every surface, and even the corners that looked a little suspicious got a thorough going-over thanks to my newfound cleaning motivation.
I wiped down every surface in sight. The cloth in my hand became my tool for mass sanitation, attacking the coffee table, the desk, the windowsill, and even the microwave with reckless enthusiasm.
I even tackled the windows, even though no one asked me to and I absolutely hates cleaning those shitty things. The glass squeaked in protest under my cloth, and I muttered dark threats the whole time, but eventually, the windows surrendered, becoming transparent enough for me to see my slightly unhinged reflection staring back.
Midway through polishing the kitchen counter for what felt like the third time, I paused. The countertop gleamed under the overhead light, exuding an almost aggressive cleanliness that felt slightly judgmental.
"Didn’t I already do this?"
I glanced down at the cloth in my hand. It was damp, a bit gray, and clearly past its prime.
"Shut up."
So I wiped it again, my movements soft and circular, as if the counter had personally offended me and needed one last round of discipline.
Because appearance counts.
Then I wandered over to Damien’s side of the room. The air there still faintly smelled of his cologne, which was both comforting and a little unfair since he wasn’t there to leave it behind.
His bed? Perfectly made, sheets tucked in with military precision, pillows arranged just so, as if they’d never known the chaos of a restless sleeper.
His desk looked like a page out of an IKEA catalog...everything aligned, organized, and suspiciously tidy, as if the furniture had been trained to never misbehave.
Even his pens looked fancy, lined up neatly, their dark bodies gleaming under the light as though they were meant for important documents instead of just university notes.
I adjusted one notebook, straightening it by about two millimeters. There was something deeply satisfying about it, even though it had already been perfectly fine.
"There. Much better."
...I might be losing it. Seriously. The quiet apartment wasn’t arguing with that assessment.
By noon, I finally gave in and texted him.
Me: What time are you getting back?
I stared at my phone, the message sitting there, looking perfectly reasonable but completely unanswered. The little "delivered" status didn’t help my growing impatience.
I waited five minutes.
Nothing.
I waited ten minutes.
Still nothing. The screen remained stubbornly blank, as though my phone had decided to team up with Damien’s silence.
"He’s probably on the plane."
Sounds reasonable, enough.
It felt logical until the next second rolled around and quietly unraveled that thought.
I checked my phone again thirty seconds later. Still nothing. The empty notification bar stared back at me, showing no new messages and having no interest in inventing any.
"If I’m making a welcome-home dinner..."
I opened the fridge. The cool air washed over me, carrying a hint of leftovers and three cartons of milk that still wouldn’t explain themselves.
"I should make something nice."
Five minutes later, I stood in front of my phone, watching a cooking tutorial for chicken alfredo. The cheerful woman on the screen smiled with the confidence of someone who’d never burned water or turned a simple sauce into a science project.
"I can do this."
Forty minutes later...
"Why is the sauce separating?"
The woman in the video smiled beautifully, her perfect kitchen glowing under soft lighting as she demonstrated a technique that seemed so simple on screen but was downright rebellious in reality.
"Now gently whisk—"
"I AM GENTLY WHISKING, FUCK!"
The sauce ignored me, persisting in its quiet rebellion, resisting my careful stirring and any silent threats I directed at it.
Eventually...
Somehow...
It looked kind of like Alfredo. If you squinted and believed in miracles. The pale, slightly lumpy mix sat in the pan, vaguely edible if approached with low expectations and a good dose of optimism.
I tasted it.
"..."
I made a face. The flavor hovered between "acceptable" and "please don’t ever mention this again," which felt like a fair outcome given the circumstances.
"...but it’s edible."
Good enough.
To be honest I was surprised I hadn’t poisoned both myself and Damien with my fancy food cooking skills.
I carefully plated two portions anyway. The white plates looked almost elegant under the kitchen light, the pasta arranged with more care than the cooking process had really warranted.
Because presentation counts.
Even if the chef probably shouldn’t be allowed near a kitchen. The quiet apartment didn’t disagree with that point.
Dinner time rolled around.
Damien still hadn’t replied.
I frowned. The plates sat lonely on the table, becoming increasingly forlorn as minutes passed without even a single notification.
Maybe the reception was bad.
I texted again.
Me: I made dinner.
Me: Food’s getting cold.
The message joined the previous one, drifting into the digital void, equally unanswered and unhelpful.
Seven o’clock.
Eight.
Nine.
I tried calling, straight to voicemail. The automated voice on the other end was way too cheerful for the growing knot of concern settling in my stomach.
"..."
Okay.
That wasn’t great, I called again.
Same result. The cheerful voicemail greeting played again, utterly indifferent to the fact that its owner was meant to be on his way home.
A small knot tightened in my stomach. The quiet apartment suddenly felt much larger than it had a few hours earlier, the empty space around the furniture becoming more pronounced with every unanswered call.
"No, don’t be dramatic. His phone probably died."
Exactly...that made perfect sense. I nodded, though the confidence was waning, as if the logic was starting to feel overused.
Five minutes later, another thought popped up.
"...Unless his family took it."
I blinked, the notion arriving fully formed and utterly unwelcome, settling into my growing collection of unnecessary worries.
No, they wouldn’t confiscate a twenty-one-year-old’s phone.
...Would they?
I started pacing. The sound of my footsteps against the floor became the only consistent noise in the apartment, a steady rhythm doing nothing to calm the increasingly dramatic scenarios taking shape in my mind.
What if they locked him inside the mansion?
No.
What if there was a car accident?
God, I hope not.
What if his weird ass sister buried him alive?
...Okay, that one’s a stretch.
I sank onto the couch. The cushions absorbed me with a gentle sigh, as if even the furniture was tired of watching me spiral.
"I’m overthinking again."
Definitely. One hundred percent. I called again anyway.
Still nothing. The cheerful voicemail greeting played yet again, and the quiet apartment offered no alternative explanations.
At some point, I must have nodded off.
I woke up the next day with my neck bent in a way that was definitely not natural. A dull ache radiated from the base of my skull down to my shoulder, as if my body had filed a formal complaint about my sleeping position.
"...Ow."
I looked at the screen. Still no missed calls and texts. I rubbed my eyes and decided on one One last call.
Straight to voicemail. The cheerful automated voice popped back up, completely unaware that it was rapidly becoming the most unhelpful sound in the room.
My heart sank... then there was a knock.