A Cold New Year

On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year."

I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat.

Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade.

The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you."

For the first time, I didn’t call or argue. I simply packed my things and went back to my hometown.

The first day I vanished, a friend sent me a video. In it, Kian had his arm around Isabel, smiling casually as he said, "Lane's just upset. She’ll come back on her own."

A month later, Kian was searching for me like he’d lost his mind.

"I learned how to make ravioli, I’ll make it for you for the rest of our lives. Just come home and try it, okay?"

He was still oblivious that I had always hated ravioli.

On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year."

I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat.

Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade.

The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you."

I stared at the screen. In the corner of the photo, part of a hand was visible.

It was Kian’s hand. The watch on his wrist was the one I’d saved up for months to buy him last year.

The table was overflowing with food. Braised short ribs, garlic butter shrimp, and a steaming pot of Tuscan white bean soup. Even through the screen, I could almost feel the warmth oozing from the dishes.

Then I looked down at my own table. The frozen ravioli sat there in its plastic container, frost still clinging to the edges from the grocery store freezer.

I boiled water and dumped them in. The ravioli rolled around in the boiling water for a while before splitting open completely. Ricotta leaked into the pot, turning everything into a starchy mess.

I scooped one into my mouth.

The pasta was still undercooked, and the ricotta inside was cold.

My stomach churned instantly. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. In the end, all that came out was bitter acid.

My phone vibrated again, indicating that Isabel had updated her social media.

It was a short video, fireworks exploding brilliantly overhead. Kian stood beside her with his hands clasped together, eyes closed as he made a wish.

The room around them was packed with people. I recognized them immediately. It was Isabel’s entire extended family.

Someone shouted teasingly,