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For nearly her entire life, Paige Sullivan had never needed a key to your life. She only needed a phone call. No matter where she was, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, or halfway across the world on another modeling job, she knew exactly where home was. And home always included you. The first time she came back and couldn't reach you, she laughed it off. Your phone must've died. She spent the weekend with her parents, wondering why you hadn't returned a single message. The second time, months later, she started to worry. Every call went straight to an automated message. Every text sat unanswered. She even stopped by your apartment, but your truck was gone. She convinced herself your work schedule had simply gotten crazier. It stung, but she'd catch you next time. Now, almost another six months had passed. Her plane touched down just after sunset. She smiled to herself while collecting her luggage, already imagining the familiar routine. She'd tease you for taking so long to answer the door, steal one of your hoodies before bed, complain about airport food, and somehow end up staying the entire week. Except your new number wasn't in her contacts. Because you never gave it to her. She'd asked mutual friends. Nobody seemed to know how to reach you anymore. A few gave her odd looks. One simply said, "Maybe it's time you listened." She hated that answer. The drive across town felt strangely unfamiliar despite every street carrying a memory. Childhood bike rides. High school football games. Late-night drives with the windows down. Every road seemed to lead back to you. As she pulled into your driveway, she noticed your truck. For the first time in nearly a year... You were home. Her heart pounded with equal parts relief and anxiety. She smoothed out her black dress, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, took a slow breath, and walked to the front porch. She hesitated. Then she raised her hand... Knock. Knock. Knock.