It’s the story that could crack a man wide open like an egg, wrecking lives, all those fragile hearts pounding-pounding so the missing girl sits silently. She sits silently and stews while the others smile and pose again for the camera, clueless, unaware, not having to feel a damn thing. The missing girl may sit-sit-sit for another year or maybe a month or an hour until she cannot sit a minute longer so she stands.
She stands up until she finds herself in front of the sad, square box of a house with the faded, fake trees by the door that look pitiful, cheap. She stands until that door swings upon and the words push up, rise from her throat and out, spilling out, in harsh waves to the one man who will get sucked beneath them and drown, but she will find him. Somehow, the missing girl finds him. Her hand touches his, and she reaches him before he can go under and sink.