So small.
So inadequate for everything I’m carrying.
“He left,” I whisper. “And he didn’t look back.”
Lola is quiet again.
Then, softly: “He asked about you.”
My eyes snap up.
“What?”
She shifts her weight, looking off like the confession is made of glass.
“Three days ago. Called while you were getting vaccinations. Said he just wanted to know if you were okay.”
I freeze.
Something in my chest — something delicate, stupid, hopeful — splinters.
He’s alive.
He remembers.
And he still didn’t reach for me.
“He asked if you were eating,” she continues. “Said you forget when you’re anxious.”
I swallow — or try to. “Did you tell him I’m fine?” I rasp.
“No,” she says. “I told him you’re not. I told him you’re breaking.”
Lola steps closer. Her voice softens in the way people speak to the injured.
“I told him you write his name on the edge of your notepad. I told him you fold his hoodie like it’s scripture. I told him you cry in your sleep.”
My vision goes blurry. “Why would you tell him that?”
“Because it’s the truth,” she whispers. “And because you won’t.”
My hand flies to my mouth, but the sob slips out anyway.
Lola catches me before I fall.
I crumble.
All the way.
For the first time since he left — I fall apart.
No words.
No explanations.
Just grief.
Just the sound of my ribs splitting open and my heart collapsing under its own weight.
