I'm curled up in Chloe's window seat, staring numbly out at my empty neighborhood.
Six days.
It had been six days since I'd woken up and discovered that everyone I'd ever known had vanished without a trace.
Six days of complete silence.
The neighborhood looked exactly the same as it had that first morning—cars still parked haphazardly in the streets, Mr. Richmond's garden hose still snaking across his waterlogged lawn, Mrs. Chen's Honda still sitting halfway into the Johnson's driveway.
I'd thought about moving it properly into her driveway, but something about disturbing this frozen tableau felt wrong.
Like I'd be erasing the evidence of the last moments before everything went silent.
I could leave, I thought for the thousandth time, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
I could get in Dad's car and drive to the next town over. See if anyone else survived whatever this was.
But the thought sent ice through my veins.
Because what if I drove for hours, or days, only to find nothing but more empty houses, more abandoned cars, more silence?
What if I confirmed what the terrified voice in my head whispered every night as I lay awake listening to the silence—that I really was the last person left alive in the entire world?
My mind didn't want to go there.
At least here, in this bubble of familiar emptiness, I could still pretend that maybe, just maybe, everyone had just... gone somewhere. Together. Without me.
It was a kinder delusion than the alternative.
Day One had been denial.
I'd unplugged every electronic device in our house that I could reach, unable to stand the static that seemed to follow me from room to room.
With everything unplugged, the house was finally, blessedly silent.
Then I'd spent the rest of the day pacing, waiting, telling myself my family would be back any minute with some perfectly reasonable explanation.
Maybe there's been an emergency evacuation I'd slept through somehow.
Maybe it was some kind of elaborate prank, though even as I thought it, I knew how ridiculous that sounded.
Day Two had been anger.
I'd gorged myself on every forbidden food in our house—the expensive ice cream Mom saved only for special occasions, the leftover birthday cake from Dad's forty-fifth, the chocolate she hid in the pantry behind the quinoa.
My stomach hurt for hours afterward, but the physical pain was almost a relief compared to the empty ache in my chest.
On Day Three I'd waged war on the silence.
I'd cranked Dad's old record player to full volume, drowning our house in classic rock and singing at the top of my lungs, until the windows rattled.
I'd danced maniacally around the living room to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen, spinning and jumping and pretending the music could fill this space where my family's voices should have been.
But when the songs ended, the silence that rushed back in was so loud it made my ears ring.
Day Four had been the day I started talking to Romeo.
Not that Romeo was there to listen. Our three-year-old Staffie mix had vanished along with every other dog, cat or bird in my neighborhood. I'd spent an hour throwing his favorite tennis ball against the fence and catching it myself, having entire conversations with the empty air where he should have been.
"Good boy, Romeo! Bring it back! No, don't chew it, just—" my voice cracked on the last word, and I'd collapsed onto the grass, clutching his permanently damp tennis ball to my chest and sobbing until I had no tears left.
I bet he missed his tennis ball.
Day Five I'd ventured out further than my cul-de-sac.
I'd gone into Raj's Supermart—the automatic doors were still working, the overhead light still humming—and grabbed a cart just because it felt normal.
I'd raced up and down the aisles, my cart wheels squeaking a frantic rhythm while I grabbed random items off the shelves.
Candy bars, cigarettes I'd never tried before, expensive wine I'd never been allowed to touch—it had all gone into the cart in a manic celebration of having no rules left to break.
In the parking lot I lit up a cigarette.
Mom would have killed me if she saw me. But she wasn't here was she?
The cigarette almost killed me though.
After taking half a puff, I'd spent the next ten minutes bent over, coughing my lungs up.
When I was done coughing, I'd drawn what little air I had left into my lungs and screamed. Just opened my mouth and let out every ounce of rage and terror and loneliness that had been building up inside me.
The sound had echoed off the empty storefronts and died in the still air, and somehow that had made everything worse.
Today—Day Six—had started like all the others.
I'd woken up alone in my parents' bed (sleeping in my room had become impossible after the second night), made myself breakfast that I barely tasted, and tried to think of new ways to fill the endless hours stretching before me.
That's how I ended up walking down Main Street with my headphones on and my music turned up loud enough to make my ears hurt.
I wasn't going anywhere in particular, just moving, because sitting still made the emptiness feel too big, too permanent.
I was halfway past Hartwell Electronics when I stopped.
The storefront window was filled with televisions of every size, all of them displaying the same thing that had been haunting my nightmares for nearly a week: that horrible, hungry static.
Dozens of screens, all pulsing with the same gray-and-white interference that had consumed every piece of connected technology in town.
The static seemed to move in waves, almost like it was breathing and even through my headphones I could swear I heard that soft, insistent hiss.
Something inside me snapped.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I was grabbing a loose chunk of concrete from the cracked sidewalk and hurling it with all my strength at the store window.
The window exploded in a shower of glittering glass, the sound sharp and violent and so satisfying that I almost threw another rock just to hear it again.
But then the reality of what I'd done hit me, and I crumpled to my knees, surrounded by scattered shards. I began to hyperventilate.
My breaths tore out of my throat, hard and fast.
I leaned forward on my knees, trying to catch my breath, but my mind wouldn't settle.
The last time I'd had a panic attack was when my Uncle Elroy was killed on a space expedition, about ten years ago.
Back then, I had the support of my mother to guide me through it—even though she herself was wracked with grief over the apparent death of her brother.
Now, I had to calm myself down on my own.
After a few long minutes, my breathing slowed.
I sat back on my heels, and stared at the sky.
I was tired of being brave. Exhausted from trying to hold it together on the off-chance that everyone would return, just stroll in casually as if from a long walk.
But mostly, I was desperate for just one other human voice.
I would give anything—anything—just to hear someone, anyone, call my name.
By the time I made it home, the sun was setting.
My footsteps are heavy as I climb the stairs to my room, drained of all energy, every step an effort.
I collapse onto my bedroom floor in a tight ball, the silence pressing down on me from all sides, but I'm too weary to react.
I pull my knees to my chest and start rocking. A mindless back-and-forth motion that reminds me of being little and scared, needing comfort.
Maybe tomorrow I'll be brave enough to leave town, I think desperately. Maybe tomorrow I'd find answers to what happened to everyone in my town.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself.
Tomorrow will be like today, and the day after will be like tomorrow, and I'll stay trapped in this bubble of familiar emptiness because the alternative—knowing for certain that everyone was gone—was simply too terrifying to face.
I'm still rocking, lost in my misery when I hear it.
I sit up quickly, scared I might be losing my mind. But the sound is getting louder with every passing second.
The steady rumble of an engine.
Someone was driving down my street.