Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

The worst thing about a missing person who’s never found
is that those they leave behind can’t really mourn. They’re
stuck in a perpetual twilight of unknowing. Unable to get
closure, unable to properly grieve, they exist in a kind of numb
limbo. Like perennials in winter, lying dormant under frozen
ground.
It’s the unanswered questions that get you. The terrible
what-ifs that gnaw at your soul with hungry teeth at night.
Is he dead? If so, how did it happen? Did he suffer? For
how long?
Did he join a cult? Get abducted? Start a new life
somewhere else?
Is he alone out in the woods, living off the land?
Did he hit his head and forget his identity?
Is he ever coming back?
The list is endless. A one-sided, open-ended Q&A that
repeats on a loop every waking hour, except you’re only
talking to yourself and the answers never come.
For people like me, there are no answers. There is only life
in suspended animation. There is only the slow and steady
calcification of your heart.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll let my best friend calcify with
me.
I raise my head and say firmly, “You’re going on that date
with gray sweatpants.”
“Nat—”
“There’s no reason both of us should be miserable. End of
discussion.”
She gazes at me with narrowed eyes for a moment, until
she sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t like this.”
“Tough. Now text your boy toy that your date is on and
finish your lunch.”