Page 3 of Sick(ness)

But this wasn’t solitude. This was something else. Something heavy and suffocating.

She hadn’t realized how much the world filled in the spaces of her life until it stopped existing. The chatter at the grocery store, the sounds of traffic, the clatter of a shopping cart wheel. Even the meaningless small talk with the cashier— “Paper or plastic?” “Rain again, huh?”—had been a thread tying her to something bigger. And now, all those threads were gone.

Addy leaned back in her chair, her eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling. At thirty-one, she had always assumed she had time. Time to figure things out, to find someone, to decide if she wanted a family—or not. Her mother used to call every Sunday, slipping hints into every conversation like clockwork. “You’re not getting any younger, Addy,” she’d say with that forced lightness that didn’t quite hide the worry. Addy would roll her eyes and change the subject.

Later, she’d always tell herself. There’s time for that later.

Now, “later” didn’t exist.

A hollow ache bloomed in her chest at the notion—not quite grief, not quite regret. Something in between.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the gray sky hung low over the rooftops; the air was still and dead. The town had always been small, sleepy, and forgettable. Now it was barely there at all.

The idea of a future—any future—seemed absurd. Humanity was unraveling too fast, slipping into something primal and irreversible. The radio message, the sirens, the empty streets—all pointed toward the same truth.

She ran her thumb along the edge of the table, feeling the rough wood beneath her skin. “Guess you were right, Mom,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I really waited too long.”

The words hit harder than she had expected. She hadn’t spoken out loud in hours, possibly days. Her own voice sounded strange, too loud in the quiet.

She swallowed hard and looked back at the radio, half-hoping it would crackle again, that some voice—any voice—might bleed through the static and tell her what to do.

But it didn’t.

Only the wind answered, sighing softly through the cracks in the window, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke.

Addy stood up slowly, her legs stiff and unsteady. For the first time, she realized it wasn’t the silence that scared her most. It was the idea that she might be the only one left to perceive it.

Her eyes drifted to the door. The deadbolt was still locked, but the urge to check pressed at her. A quick look down the hall to make sure she was really alone.

She imagined it—turning the lock, pulling the door open slightly enough to see that empty hallway stretching out on either side. Perhaps it would be quiet. Perhaps she’d see the flicker of another flashlight under a door, some sign of life. Or she’d see nothing at all.

The idea made her stomach churn.

She pushed it away. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

Instead, she grabbed the notepad from the counter and wrote in shaky letters:

Day 5. Still here. Still safe.

She stared at the words for a long time before setting the pen down. “Still safe,” she whispered again, as if saying it might make it true.

Her gaze lingered on the door, her mind wandering to the people who used to be behind the others in this hallway—the sounds of life that used to fill the building. The faint clatter of pots and pans, the echo of laughter, the slam of doors when someone came home late from work.

Now it was all gone.

She thought about the small family down the hall, the couple with the baby who always seemed to cry as she was getting into bed. At first, it had annoyed her—the constant wails through paper-thin walls—but now she’d give anything to hear it again. She hadn’t heard the baby in days. The last time she had, the sound had been weak, almost tired. Followed by endless nothing.

Her chest ached. Were they gone? Had they tried to make it somewhere safer? Or were they still inside, quiet for reasons she didn’t want to imagine?

Addy rubbed her arms, trying to shake the chill creeping under her skin.

Then there was him—the guy next door, Sawyer, as she called him in her head. She was sure that was his real name. She’d overheard it once from the landlord when she first moved in and decided it suited him. Quiet. Rough around the edges. The kind of man who probably owned more tools than dishes.

He’d nod politely when their paths crossed in the stairwell, never saying more than a few words. “Morning.” “Evening.” “It’s a cold one today.” With that always low, gravelly voice, always that faint smell of cedar or smoke clinging to him, as if he’d come from chopping firewood.

Not her type at all—too stoic, too outdoorsy. The kind of man who probably believed coffee was best served black and women were supposed to know how to make biscuits from scratch. She used to roll her eyes at men like that.

But now… she caught herself listening for any sound from his apartment. Footsteps. Movement. A door opening. Anything. She hadn’t heard a thing since the first day of quarantine. That first night, she’d heard a loud thud, like furniture being dragged, and then silence. No TV. No talking. No sign of life.