We shared a small house for two years—a cozy place with sunlight streaming through the windows, where life felt simple and safe. My roommate was one of those people who lit up every room she walked into. She had this energy—bright, infectious, the kind that made even bad days feel a little lighter.
Then, without warning, she disappeared.
I came home one evening to find her phone on the counter, her keys in the bowl by the door, everything exactly where it should be—except her. No note, no text, no sign of a struggle. Just silence.
The police searched. Her family held vigils. We plastered missing posters on every street corner, hoping for a lead, a sighting, anything. But as weeks turned into months, and months into years, the trail went cold. The case faded, and so did the hope.
Five years later, I finally decided to sell the house. Packing up her untouched room felt like disturbing a ghost. Her bed was still made, her books stacked neatly on the shelf, a dried-out mug on the nightstand. Then, as I moved her dresser, I found it—a small hole in the wall, hidden behind the furniture. Inside, crumpled notes, scribbled in her handwriting.
The first one stopped me cold:
“If I ever disappear, look for me at Jake’s cabin in the mountains.”
Jake. Her ex-boyfriend. Charming, intense, possessive—the kind of guy who made my skin prickle even back then. She had mentioned his temper, his controlling behavior, but I hadn’t pushed hard enough. I hadn’t taken it seriously.
The police reopened the case, but it was too late. Jake had vanished overseas, and the cabin had been sold and remodeled. No trace of her was ever found.
I still wonder—if I’d found those notes sooner, could I have saved her? The question follows me everywhere. I sold the house, but I kept the letters. Sometimes, I think about opening that drawer, hoping for answers. But for now, all I have is silence and a story with no ending.
