By the time months had passed since Joshua disappeared, I had walked the same streets of Seattle more times t

By the time months had passed since Joshua disappeared, I had walked the same streets of Seattle more times than I could count.

I had retraced his last steps again and again.

The bus ride.

The milkshakes from McDonald's.

The hair store.

The moment he rode away on the purple bicycle.

Every detail lived in my mind like a scene stuck on repeat.

There were clues along the way.

The man Kevin said Josh had been spending time with.

The Ring camera video showing a package theft and a black truck.

The RV at Roxhill Park.

The tip about someone who looked like Josh riding a bike in West Seattle.

The sightings people claimed near 12th Avenue & Jackson Street.

Each piece felt like it should have led somewhere.

But none of them gave me the answer I was looking for.

Instead, they left me with questions.

Was Josh caught up in something dangerous with the people he had been around?

Did paranoia and addiction push him into hiding somewhere in the city?

Did someone hurt him?

Or is he still out there somewhere, lost in a world that swallowed him whole?

The hardest part of a disappearance is not knowing.

Grief usually has an ending.

A funeral.

A goodbye.

A place where the story closes.

But when someone vanishes, there is no ending.

Only silence.

And questions that echo forever.

I have learned that loving someone who is missing means living between two worlds.

One where hope still whispers that they might come back.

And another where the fear of what might have happened never fully lets go.

I still walk through Seattle sometimes looking for his face in crowds.

I still wonder if one day I’ll hear a knock on the door.

I still imagine the moment where everything finally makes sense.

But until that day comes, the questions remain.

And so does my love for him.