Missing Emily

The con’s in three days.

Two-day event. Day one’s the big one—the reveal. Teaser premiere, quick Q&A, handshakes, photo ops, the usual industry flex. Day two? That’s supposed to be the fun part. The full panel—Kathryn, Kim, Misha, the whole crew. Eric and the writers unpacking the story, the lore, the universe we’ve been cracking open like a cursed book nobody knows how to close. The Supernatural fandom has always largely been inviting, and I was excited to experience that first hand, so was Emily.

I was part of day one. Professional. Polished. Maybe even slightly cocky. Then, day two? That was ours. Emily and me. Cash in the per diem, buy some stupidly overpriced memorabilia for my home office, maybe grab a replica of Dean’s amulet or one of those lore books the fandom drools over. Take pictures with Emily, spend too much money on snacks, maybe accidentally buy a prop weapon I don’t have room for.

But that’s gone now.

She’s gone now.

Miami.

And no amount of Impala joyrides or overpriced dinners or Iris' reassurances can change that.

I dive into work, because that’s all there is to do.

Iris is good. She helps. Keeps me on task. Keeps me sane. She notices, of course she notices—the shift. The way my shoulders are tighter, the humor running thinner, the quiet, hollow ache that lives behind my eyes now. But I never take it out on her. Never have, never will.

We’ve both seen enough of men who do.

At night, Emily and I FaceTime. Every night. Mostly bullshit. Nothing heavy. We don’t talk about work. We sure as hell don’t talk about the con. It’s too close to the bone.

Sometimes it’s just her telling me about how humid Miami is, how hotel coffee always tastes like burnt ashes. Sometimes it’s me rambling about paperwork or Iris getting in a stare-down with a studio lawyer.

Most nights? We just… exist. She curls up in bed, the screen balanced against her pillow, her voice small and sleepy through the speaker. One night, I talk so long I just… watch her drift off. Her breathing slows, her face softens, and then the sound starts—the tiny, cute little snore she swears doesn’t exist.

I just watch her, the glow of my phone the only thing keeping the loneliness from winning.

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The days crawl.

More paperwork. Design tweaks. I fuss over the rune graphic redesigned until my eyes blur.

Iris is ruthless with the contracts. Makes damn sure I don’t get screwed. Locking down protections, image rights, and the big one—a pay-or-play deal for the film. Six figures. Not mind-blowing Hollywood cash, but more than I made last year doing ad campaigns and celebrity shoots. More than I ever expected for a dumb, lucky break as a fan turned tattoo artist in a teaser trailer.

Now I’m a creative consultant. An actor. And we haven't filmed one shot for the upcoming film.

It should feel surreal. Instead? It feels… quieter than it should. Like winning the lottery with no one to celebrate it with.

At home, I do the minutia. I finish the leftovers from that night. Order out when I can’t face cooking. I try to keep it light—binge a few funny Supernatural episodes. The meta one with the real-world versions of Sam and Dean always cracks me up.

I even cave and download this little indie game called Unpacking. Dumb name, but it’s… surprisingly therapeutic. You just… unpack boxes. Place belongings in new spaces. Arrange bookshelves. Stock a kitchen. Make a home out of someone else’s story. There’s no timer. No enemies. Just quiet, atmospheric music and this slow drip of nostalgia and intimacy. It gets under my skin.

I play for hours. Lose track of time.

I’d drink, but there’s nothing in the house. And even if there was… booze has never really been my poison. Watching my uncle drink himself hollow left that taste sour in my mouth a long time ago. I barely let myself touch it. I’ve seen what the bottom of a bottle turns men into.

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Finally, it’s the night before the con.

My suitcase’s half-packed on the bed, the hotel confirmation pulled up on my phone. I toss in the usual... jeans, a few t-shirts, the black boots Emily loves, toiletries, charger. I hesitate at the closet.

Her blouse hangs there from that almost perfect night.

I stare at it. My throat tightens. Stupid. Pathetic. Doesn’t stop me.

I fold it, careful, and lay it in my suitcase like it’s contraband. Not sure if it’ll make me feel better or worse, but I do it anyway.

At the airport the next morning, Iris is waiting, black coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She’s already in work mode—checking emails, reviewing schedules.

I insisted she transfer Emily’s con access to herself. No point letting it go to waste.

She hesitates—rolls her eyes—but does it. She gets it. I’m not looking to be noble. Just… can’t stand the thought of an empty seat next to me.

The flight boards. The city shrinks beneath us.

I grab a new book from one of those overpriced airport kiosks... "Big Dumb Eyes" by Nate Bargatze. I’ve seen him live. The guy’s a riot. His deadpan delivery, the way he stumbles through jokes like he’s constantly surprised life exists?

The plane hums. I thumb through the book. I should be excited—the trailer, the fans, the career leap. But there’s this ache under it all, coiled tight in my chest.

Emily should be here. Laughing beside me. Snoring quietly on my shoulder by the second leg of the flight.

She’s not.

Whatever. I’ll muster through it. Burn the per diem on memorabilia, load up on dumb collectibles for my home office, grab some for her too.

I drift off somewhere over the clouds. Book still open on my lap. The ache still there, dull and heavy, waiting for me to wake up.