The last time my friend saw his girlfriend alive, she walked into a bathroom. The next time he saw her, she was sitting upright in the back of a truck. They had been having a beautiful trip. Exploring the city, visiting places, enjoying the kind of vacation couples spend months saving for. Then one afternoon, his girlfriend excused herself to use the bathroom. He waited. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. At first, he thought nothing of it. Maybe she was fixing her makeup or answering a call. But when he went to check, she was nowhere to be found. He searched the restaurant, asked the staff, checked the surrounding streets, and called her phone repeatedly. Nothing. His girlfriend had vanished into thin air. He reported her missing and refused to leave France without her. He extended his stay, visited police stations, retraced their steps, and spent every waking hour imagining the worst possible scenarios. Days passed. No leads. No answers. Eventually, reality began to sink in. He couldn't stay there forever. Heartbroken and exhausted, he finally decided to drive out of the country. He thought he was going home to an empty apartment and a lifetime of unanswered questions. He had no idea that, just before reaching the border, he was about to see his girlfriend again. Except she wasn't walking. She was sitting in the back of a truck. And she wasn't moving.

Julian looked like the kind of man whose life ran on Swiss train schedules. Crisp linen shirts, a clean jawline, and the sort of calm, attentive eye contact that made you feel like whatever you just said was the most fascinating thing uttered all week. We had been seeing each other for a little over a month... nice dinners, quiet jazz bars, walking back through cool city air with our coats brushing. He was deliberate, almost excessively respectful. He never rushed a goodnight kiss, never made a clumsy grab, and always asked before crossing a boundary. It was refreshing. Until the third night I stayed over at his place. We were sitting on his sofa, an indie movie playing at low volume on the screen, wine glasses empty on the low teak coffee table. The lights were dimmed, casting long, soft shadows across the hardwood. When he leaned in and kissed me, it started with that same familiar, slow burn. Then he pulled back just an inch, his breathing shallow, his eyes darker than usual. "I want to try something," he whispered against my jaw. "If you’re open to it." I smiled, my heart giving an anticipatory flutter. "Depends on what it is." "Stay right there. Keep your eyes on me." He stood up, never breaking gaze, and walked toward the small kitchen alcove. I heard a cabinet open, the crinkle of stiff paper, and then the quiet, metallic rattle of a drawer sliding shut. When he stepped back into the dim glow of the living room, he was holding two brown paper grocery bags and a wide roll of masking tape. I let out an involuntary laugh, expecting a punchline. "Julian, what are you doing?" He didn't laugh. His expression was completely earnest, locked in a trance-like concentration that instantly killed my amusement.