My stomach drops. She’s never left me a note before. Never gone to Nikko’s without telling me face-to-face. Which means she’s really angry at me.
Angry enough to tell me we’d always be in this together—then leave.
Angry enough to give me the silent treatment for days.
Angry enough to abandon me alone with my own thoughts for an entire weekend.
Not only did I have to spend the week at City Hall, Alex didn’t talk to me once, and avoided me at home as well.
First it was a note about Pilates. Then an art class. Wednesday she called in sick and went to the zoo. In February. Thursday she took another art class. Friday she left a note that she had a date.
She came home after I already fell asleep. And now this? First thing Saturday morning.
The only saving grace for the week was that Marcus is never actually in his office.
I crumple the note in a fist.
What the fuck was I thinking? That she’d somehow just... get over it? That I could keep deflecting and joking and avoiding and she’d keep forgiving me?
But I never showed up. Not in the way she needed. Not in the way she believed I could.
Now what?
“Fine!” I shout to the empty space. “I’m listening!”
I grip the note in my fist and walk in a circle. Once. Twice. My socks catching on the hardwood.
Nothing.
Only silence answers.
“Great. Cool. So now I’m the asshole talking to ghosts in an empty apartment.” I pace faster. “This is fine. This is very normal. Very well-adjusted behavior.”
The plants stare at me. All forty-seven of them hanging from the ceiling like a jury.
“Don’t look at me like that. Your mom left you with me, so technically this is her fault.”
I turn in another circle. Arms spread like I’m addressing an invisible audience.
“Dahlia? You there? No? Just me and Alex’s botanical children having a Saturday morning breakdown?”
Silence.
My arms drop.
“Cool. Love that for me. Love being the girl who shouts at ghosts and gets the silent treatment from both the living AND the dead.”
The loft feels massive without her. All those crystals on every surface catching light, throwing rainbows that feel accusatory. The tarot deck still sitting on the coffee table from last Thursday—the last time she tried to read my cards and I made a joke about it.
When was the last time I didn’t make a joke?
When was the last time I stopped performingfinelong enough to let her see me break?
Fifteen years of friendship and I’ve spent every single one of them proving I’m okay. Because women who aren’t fine are burdens. Women who aren’t fine get left behind.
My chest aches. That specific ache that has nothing to do with muscles and everything to do with the fact that my person isn’t talking to me.
And it’s my fault.
