I thought I had it all, a beautiful life, a loving husband, and a best friend who felt like family.
Everything felt perfectly in place, like a meticulously curated dream I never wanted to wake from.
Michael and I had been together for ten years, married for seven, and Sarah, my best friend, had been by my side since college.
They were my people, the two pillars of my world.
Michael, with his quiet strength and reassuring presence, and Sarah, with her infectious laugh and unwavering loyalty.
We often talked about our dreams, especially our shared dream of owning a little beach house, a specific Airbnb we adored.
It was this quaint, rustic cabin on the Oregon coast, tucked away in the trees, with a view of the crashing waves.
We’d visited it twice, celebrating our anniversaries there, whispering about buying it someday when the kids were grown.
Last month, Michael told me he had to go on an urgent work trip, a major conference in Portland.
He said it would be intense, long hours, but crucial for his career.
I was sad to see him go but proud, telling him to work hard and I’d hold down the fort.
He kissed me goodbye, promising to call every night, and I watched his car disappear down the driveway.
The first few days, his calls were exactly as promised, full of updates, complaints about conference food, and reassurances of his love.
Sarah came over that week, bringing wine and comfort, knowing I always got a little lonely when Michael traveled.
We watched movies, laughed, and even cried a little, just like we always did.
She mentioned she was planning a weekend getaway for herself, to "clear her head" after a stressful week at work.
I suggested she join me for a spa day instead, but she politely declined, saying she needed solitude.
A small part of me felt a flicker of something unidentifiable, a tiny misgiving, but I quickly dismissed it.
It was Sarah, my best friend.
Then came Thursday.
I was scrolling through my old photo albums on my laptop, reminiscing about our last anniversary trip to the coast.
I found myself back on the Airbnb listing, smiling at the memories.
Out of curiosity, I clicked on the calendar to see its availability, idly wondering when we could next book it.
And that’s when I saw it.
Booked.
For this weekend.
The exact dates Michael was supposed to be in Portland.
My breath hitched in my throat, a cold dread washing over me.
It had to be a coincidence, a mistake.
Right?
My fingers trembled as I clicked on the public reviews, desperately searching for anything, a name, a photo.
And there it was.
