Will was keeping track.
It had been exactly one week since he had last seen Emma Pillsbury; they had been sitting in his apartment, drinking a glass of wine and establishing their relationship. They were celebrating the settling of his divorce and cuddling, which was something he began growing attached to. He had the itch in his arms where he needed someone to hold, and yet no one else would do, because no one held the same, petite frame as she did. No one else in the world could fit against him like she did.
He could remember, once, when they had gotten together as 'just friends' (for they agreed to put off any further relations until he was no longer linked to Terri in any way, shape, or form) and she had fallen asleep during a movie, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. He couldn't remember what movie it was, because it wasn't important; all he could remember was the peaceful look on her face as she cuddled up close to him. Will had taken to lay her out on the couch, but felt her fingers close over his wrist before he could walk away.
"No," she murmured drowsily, and that melted his heart.
So he had carried her into the bedroom and came to rest next to her, and in her unconscious state she had pulled herself to him and buried her face into his chest. He spent most of that night just watching her, noting all of her adorable habits (like the way her nose scrunched every now and then, and the way her hand kept finding his heart), and holding her close.
The night he last saw her had been, if it were possible, even better. The only downside of the night was the fact that Ken was calling her over and over again, as he quite often did, in his attempts to get her back. Finally, as it began to kill the mood, he remembered her taking a call and putting it to him simply that she was with Will and that wasn't going to change. The night, from there, had progressed quite swimmingly.
She always picked up the phone when he called, always answered the door. Once, she had called him when she was going to be an hour late for work so that he wouldn't worry -- the last thing he could think that Emma would ever do would be to run away. Ignore him. No, she wouldn't go to such lengths, and why would she have to? Things were going great and he hadn't done anything to mess it up (he made sure of that).
It wasn't as though he hadn't gone to greater lengths to find her. Every day, he made a trip over to her house and retrieved the spare key from beneath the door mat to look around. Each time was the same; her place was completely empty, everything untouched. Judging by the thin layer of dust collecting on the furniture, she hadn't even been home. Even all of her cleaning supplies were still underneath the sink in her bathroom, untouched. He didn't think that they were used to going a day without thorough use.
Principal Figgins hadn't heard from Emma, either, and she was always cautious to call off of work when she needed to. The police had been contacted but they were proving to be no help. Will spent his nights calling her over again, and he didn't think he stopped crying since day four. He'd called in a substitute to take over his Spanish classes as he searched, worried, wracked his brain for anything. He had even gone so far as to go through Emma's personal contact book to get her family's numbers. Nothing.
He missed her laugh. He missed the way her smile brightened her wide, beautiful brown eyes, the way her nose crinkled when he tickled her sides, the way she always tidied up his apartment when he wasn't looking. He missed the look on her face when he brought her flowers or cooked for her, missed the way her fingers wrapped around his much-larger hand when they watched a scary movie and the way she held onto him and cried when they watched something sad.
He thought of her tears; he could only imagine that they were flowing now. He didn't know what had happened, and didn't want to think about it (though he inevitably did, nonstop) but he knew it had to be drastic. She wouldn't do this without a motive. Someone would know where she was if something weren't wrong.
What if she was dead? The thought alone wrenched his heart and as he sat on the edge of his bed, the urge to be ill overcame him and he dodged into the bathroom. Emma was the sweetest person he had ever had the pleasure of meeting and he couldn't imagine anybody harming her in any way, shape, or form. She never harmed anyone, aside from maybe Ken, who had guilted her into being with him only by convincing her that no one else would ever want her. It was a terrible thing for Ken to do and yet it worked; as far as Will was concerned, he got what he deserved. But other than that, she was so dreadfully innocent. Her smile could light up his day, and he often times made a few extra trips to her office just for a pick-me-up.
As he wiped his mouth, he imagined, for a moment (much against his will), her mangled body on the side of the highway, or in a dumpster. He imagined that if she were alive, she would be frightened beyond belief. For a moment, after vomiting for perhaps the third time in a row, he allowed a selfish thought to wash over him as he wondered if she were thinking of him, wondered if she wished he were there to tell her everything was alright.
That is, if she were still alive.
Another wave of grief washed over him as he stood, quickly brushing his teeth. He slipped on a pair of shoes and stormed out of his apartment, on his way, once again, to see if she was home.