4 days. 4 days to turn my life from practically perfect to practically Hell. 4 days since Phil disappeared. 4 days of a silent flat, mornings without smiles and crying myself to sleep at night. It's not like he was violently kidnapped in the middle of the night or chased, screaming, through the street. He just vanished. The two of us were walking home from the BBC after talking to fans like usual, then we turned down a side road, I craned mu neck to say something and he wasn't there. I called his name, listened to the echo reflect off the harsh concrete walls and heard no reply. Just the distant sirens and footfalls of London late at night. I almost wish there was a struggle, with thugs shouting and grabbing. Then there would be evidence or proof or something, rather than sudden, cold, silence. I shuddered under the blanket, pulling its gentle folds around my shoulders as I dragged my mind back the present. The present, where Phil should be sitting next to me on the sofa, wrapped up in our shared blanket, his pale blue eyes gazing intently at the TV, his lopsided smile plastered on his face…
No. I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath. I really shouldn't be thinking those thoughts, because they threaten to consume me. I swallowed and opened my eyes, mentally making a checklist of what I had done to keep myself sane. Let's see: I've rung the police to report him missing, asked all of our friends if he'd made plans with them and posted a video on 'danisnotonfire' asking if any of the more stalkery viewers had an idea of where Phil might be. Yesterday I went back to the road corner where I last saw him and searched around for the smallest sign of where he could be. I looked under all the bins, along all the windows ledges, I even picked through smashed glass bottles that lay on the pavement. No matter how much I searched, I couldn't find so much as a scrap of dust pointing to Phil's current location. Wherever that might be. What if he's – no. OK, making a list isn't helping. I blinked, my gaze shifting from staring into empty space back up to the TV. The movie had finished minutes ago. I nudged the remote with my foot, shutting off the screen. I folded my leg back and allowed myself to melt into the blanket. I closed my eyes once again and tried to let myself drift off, but my mind would only allow thoughts of Phil; where he could be, the last thing he was wearing, the last thing he ever said to me. What? No. Phil will come back, he's not gone, he wouldn't leave me. But he, has hasn't me? No! Maybe he's just lost, or stuck in another city… Or hurt. Kidnapped, alone and crying and weak. Just like you. I'm sure he's okay. He's confident and brave when he needs to be. Or he's dead. I gasped, awakening myself to my brown hair plastered to my head, my limbs tangled at insane angles, hot tears dripping down my face. I brought a sweaty hand up to brush away my fringe and wipe away salty tears. I let out a whimper of despair and pressed my face to the upholstery of the sofa, muffling the sound of my weeping. Alone, crying and weak. I wish Phil were here.
