Chasing shadows

[ Music recommendation: When the party's over by Billie Eillish.]

Andrea paced back and forth in her living room, her thoughts spiraling into a chaotic mess. Her chest felt tight with guilt, her mind replaying every heated moment she'd shared with Joe, every impulsive decision she'd made. She couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that she'd ruined everything.

Taylor's soft knock on the door barely registered. Without waiting for an invitation, her best friend stepped in, concern etched across her face.

"Hey, I've been calling—" Taylor's words died in her throat as Andrea collapsed into her arms, her body trembling with sobs.

"I messed up, Taylor," Andrea choked out, her voice thick with despair. "He's not taking my calls. Not replying to my texts. I think I pushed him away."

Taylor led Andrea to the couch, wrapping a comforting arm around her. "What are you talking about? It's probably nothing. Maybe he's just busy—"

"No," Andrea cut her off, shaking her head vehemently. "It's my fault. I instigated it, escalated it... I was always the one who wanted more." Her voice broke. "He probably hates me now. Maybe he's done with me."

Taylor tightened her grip, brushing a tear from Andrea's cheek. "Andrea, stop. You're overthinking this. Joe's not like that. Just give him time."

But Andrea wasn't convinced. Days passed, and Joe's silence remained deafening. Her unease festered until she couldn't take it anymore.

One afternoon, driven by equal parts desperation and dread, Andrea found herself standing outside the gym where Joe worked. The familiar clanking of weights and the rhythmic hum of treadmills filled the air as she stepped inside.

Her pulse quickened as she scanned the room, searching for his familiar silhouette. But Joe was nowhere to be seen. Steeling herself, Andrea approached a staff member behind the front desk—a man with a clipboard and a polite but wary expression.

"Hi, um, I'm looking for Joe," she said, her voice faltering.

The man's expression shifted, growing serious. He hesitated, glancing around as if to ensure no one else was listening.

"Joe?" he repeated carefully. "He… doesn't work here anymore."

Andrea's heart skipped a beat. "What? Why?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Apparently... he was caught pounding one of the customers. " He emphasized the words awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the gossip he was sharing.

Andrea's breath caught in her throat. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot as guilt and humiliation crashed over her like a tidal wave.

"Oh," she whispered, barely able to form the word.

The man offered a sympathetic shrug. "Sorry. I'm just the messenger."

Nodding numbly, Andrea turned on shaky legs and made her way toward the exit. The gym's lively sounds blurred into a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of her own heart.

Her mind raced as shame prickled at her skin. It's my fault. All of it.

As she pushed open the door and stepped into the bright afternoon light, Andrea drew a trembling breath. Tears threatened to spill again, but she forced herself to stand tall.

She had to find Joe. She had to fix this—no matter what it took.

---

Andrea sat curled up on her couch, a blanket wrapped around her like a fragile shield against the weight pressing down on her chest. The room was dim, the only light coming from a muted TV flickering aimlessly in the background. Her eyes were swollen and raw from days of crying, and yet the tears threatened to spill again.

She clutched her phone in trembling hands, scrolling through unanswered texts and missed calls to Joe. Each notification felt like a fresh wound. Why won't he reply? What did he just leave? The questions looped in her mind, gnawing at her sanity.

Driven by guilt and desperation, Andrea decided she couldn't wait any longer. She needed answers. Her breath hitched as she stood up, shaky but determined. The blanket slipped from her shoulders and pooled onto the floor as she grabbed her car keys.

The drive to Joe's apartment was a blur of rain-slicked streets and blurred headlights. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, a nervous drumbeat that refused to quiet. Pulling up outside his building, Andrea hesitated for a moment, summoning the courage to face him.

What if he slams the door in my face? What if he doesn't want me anymore?

Shaking off the doubts, she made her way to his door. But when she knocked, only silence greeted her. Frowning, she knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer.

Her chest tightened as panic set in. She peeked through the small window beside the door—and froze. The apartment was empty. Completely stripped of life.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Joe was gone.

Andrea stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth. He moved out? It had only been three days since she'd last seen him. How could he have packed up and left so quickly?

Tears blurred her vision as she fumbled back to her car, slamming the door shut behind her. The rain tapped relentlessly against the windshield, mirroring the chaos inside her.

Over the following days, Andrea's world unraveled further. She withdrew from everything—parties, friends, even her beloved dance classes. Her once-bright eyes now carried a dull emptiness, and her signature radiant smile had vanished.

Taylor noticed it first. "Oh my gosh," she whispered to another friend during a break between classes, "I've never seen Andrea like this, not even when she broke up with Jackson."

Taylor cornered Andrea after class, her brow furrowed in concern. "Girl, you need to snap out of it," she said firmly, gripping Andrea's arm. "A guy who vanishes because of a dumb job isn't worth this. You're better than this, Andrea. Come on."

But Andrea shook her head, her voice hoarse from crying. "You don't get it, Taylor. It's all my fault. He lost everything because of me." Her lips trembled as she fought to keep herself together.

"That's not true," Taylor insisted, frustration creeping into her tone. "You can't control what other people do."

Despite her friend's best efforts, Andrea remained locked in her sorrow. The weight of guilt followed her into every dance practice, dragging her down like lead chains.

Her instructor, a sharp-eyed woman with decades of experience, noticed immediately. During one session, as Andrea moved through a routine with half-hearted steps and lifeless gestures, the instructor clapped her hands sharply, halting the music.

"Andrea." Her voice sliced through the room, stern but not unkind. "What is going on with you?"

Andrea froze, avoiding the instructor's piercing gaze. "Nothing," she muttered, forcing a weak shrug.

"Don't lie to me," the instructor said bluntly. "Your dances are flat. Mechanical. You're not present. If this keeps up, you're going to fail. And you know what that means in this school."

Andrea swallowed hard, shame prickling at her skin. She nodded mutely, unable to speak.

The instructor sighed, softening just a bit. "Sort yourself out, Andrea. You're better than this."

As the class resumed, Andrea stood at the back, her heart heavy with regret and confusion. She knew the consequences of failure. Yet all she could think about was Joe—his absence, his silence, the emptiness he'd left behind.

Her life was spiraling, and she had no idea how to stop it.