The disappearance of a girl named sol

Every Friday, I’ll send out a short piece of fiction. Some weeks it’ll be pure imagination. Other weeks, it’ll be a slightly altered memory. If you like what you read, leave a comment!

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The first thing Sol did when she moved in was rearrange the mugs in the kitchen cabinet. She didn’t ask, just moved them around so her thrifted collection sat eye-level, handles all facing the same direction. Normally, someone touching my stuff would annoy me, but this didn’t. Something about the way she methodically organized the cabinet left me feeling like maybe I, too, should be more intentional.

At that point, it had been three weeks since my old roommate left to move in with her boyfriend, one week since I’d fallen behind on rent, and a couple of days into seriously considering leaving the city. I was as desperate to make my living situation work as my dried monstera was for water. Subletting the spare room had always been the plan, but I didn’t want to live with just anyone. When I met Sol, my first impression was that her quiet presence and cinnamon-scented clothes felt calming.

Having Sol around was awkward at first. Not in a tense way, or because of anything she did. More like two people who were literal strangers up until they decided to live together.

She’d nod when I said good morning but never initiate more. I pretended to be too busy to chat, even though I worked from the couch and mostly refreshed my inbox. But slowly, we found a rhythm.

She offered me half a Concha one night when I came home looking like I’d cried in my car (because I had). I started leaving the hallway light on for her when I noticed she always came home after dark. We never talked about it. It was easier that way. Simple, quiet kindness passed back and forth like a borrowed sweater.

The first time we really talked was over a pan of burnt brownies. I’d left them in the oven and forgotten to take them out. Apparently checking your ex’s new girlfriend’s Instagram can make you lose track of time.

Sol appeared in the doorway with a dishtowel over her shoulder and a half-smile, like she’d been waiting for an excuse.

“Boxed brownies, huh?” she asked, opening a window like she owned the place. Her words were laced with sarcasm, but void of judgement. “Come on, let me show you how to make a orejas.

That night, we stayed up until two a.m., kneading dough while she told me how her grandma used to make those pastries back home. We swapped shitty ex stories and talked about her dream of becoming a pastry chef at one of the fancy restaurants in Los Angeles.

For the first time, my roommate felt like more than just that. She felt like a friend.

But three days later, she was gone.

No note, no sealed doors. Her bed was made, the throw blanket folded like she’d just stepped out for a walk. At first, I assumed she’d just left early for work, or maybe stayed at a friend’s place. But then the night passed. Then another. Her makeup was still in the bathroom. Her favorite mug— a white The Jetsons mug— was still on the drying rack.

By day three, I texted her. No response. I called, half-expecting to hear her laugh and say she forgot to tell me she went on a road trip. Nothing. Her laundry basket was half-full, and the last grocery list she wrote was still stuck to the fridge.

I knocked on my landlord’s door and asked if he’d seen Sol. He shrugged and said people like her always bail eventually. I didn’t know what he meant by that.

I checked her Instagram, which hadn’t been updated since a messy photo of the orejas we’d made. Her bio said little. No city, no job title. Just a croissant emoji and a quote in Spanish I had to google. Even afraid, I keep going.

Then I ran into Mrs. Lopez, the older woman who lived in the unit across the courtyard. She was taking out the trash and asked, casually, if Sol was okay.

“I saw the unmarked van,” she said. “Outside the building several days ago. I think they were ICE agents.”

I blinked. Not sure what to say. Then finally, “Why would that matter to Sol?”

Mrs. Lopez set the basket of laundry she was carrying down on the floor. Her expression softened. “One day Sol told me she comes from a small village in Ecuador, close to where my husband’s family is from. She never specifically said it, but I picked up that her family brought her to the states undocumented.”

I swallowed hard. A chill ran down my spine. “You think the agents took her?”

“I can’t be sure. But I wouldn’t put it past them.”

That night, I sat on the edge of Sol’s bed and stared at her slippers on the floor. The exact place she took them off, thinking she’d come home that night. I could practically hear her laugh as she told me a story about the kitchen she worked in. She’d done so much for me; finally made this apartment feel like home. Listened when I needed it the most. And I never thought twice to ask her more about her past. She seemed to dodge the subject, and it made sense why.

The next morning, I opened the cabinet and all the mugs were still in their perfect place. I reached for the white Jetsons mug but stopped. It felt wrong to use something that she loved so much.

I sat at the kitchen table and scrolled through our old messages, stopping on the photos she sent me when she was trying on outfits for a Hinge date. I couldn’t imagine a time when I could ever bring myself to delete these.

I don’t know where she is, or if I’ll ever hear from her again. But I keep her quote saved in my Notes App. Even afraid, I keep going. I didn’t understand it before. I do now.

Before Sol, I didn’t know this could happen. That someone could be here one day—laughing in your kitchen, folding their laundry, planning their future— and gone the next. Like a story cut off mid-sentence. No warning. No explanation. Just silence where a life used to be.

The detainee locator online came up blank when I typed in the name I thought was hers. I kept walking by the bakery she worked at, checking through the window to see if she was there. She never was.

I kept waiting for someone to knock on the door, to ask about Sol, to bring her back. But no one came. And maybe that’s what haunts me most. That a whole person disappeared and the world just kept going.