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October 9, 2028 - Monday

"Come home to me."

Peter's voice whispers in my ear, and I can almost feel his breath on my skin. Goosebumps crop up on my arms and legs, and I open my eyes, just to check. Maybe he came back, snuck into our bed in the middle of the night and repeated those pleas I'd made when I thought no one was listening.

His side of the bed is empty, a cold nest of crumpled sheets. I trace his outline with my fingers, trying to conjure up his image and coming up with nothing but a blurry picture of someone I feel like I don't know anymore.

My husband has been away for nearly six months, working night and day in his company's lab supposedly located right under our city's nose. His line of work has always kept him busy, always had him traveling and working late nights doing God knows what. On our first date, when I asked him what he did for a living, he laughed and said that if he told me he'd have to kill me. Little did I know, he was probably telling the truth.

We dated for four years, stayed engaged for two, and have been married for three, and I still don't know what he really does or how we're able to afford the home we live in.

I look at the clock, blinking back sleep and the beginning of tears. 3:27. I'm thirsty. I amble into the kitchen to get myself some water, and I decide I will tell Dr. Russell about the dreams I've been having. The dreams about Peter, returning to me even though I have not heard from him. The dreams where he comes home, but he is not himself in a way that I can't seem to understand.