Two days ago, my husband disappeared. At first, I thought it was just a miscommunication or maybe he needed some space, but as the hours turned into days, I grew increasingly worried. He wasn’t responding to my calls or texts. I retraced our steps, trying to figure out what could have happened, but nothing seemed out of place.
I reached out to his friends, his family, but no one had heard from him either. The silence was deafening, and I couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t right. I spent the past two days in a haze of worry, not knowing what to do. My thoughts raced through every possible scenario. Had something happened to him? Was he in danger? Or worse, had he left me without a word?
This morning, my curiosity got the best of me. I needed answers, so I decided to drive around, hoping to find some clue. When I reached the outskirts of town, I saw his car parked near an old, run-down motel. My heart skipped a beat. The motel was a place we’d never talked about, a place that seemed far from the life we had built together.
I parked a little distance away and just stared. My mind raced—was he there? Had he been there the whole time? The questions piled up faster than I could process them. I tried to push aside the feelings of betrayal, confusion, and hurt, but they lingered like a dark cloud. I knew I had to find out what was going on, but I wasn’t sure I was prepared for the answers that awaited me.
