I’m doing it again. Trying to control it. Make it perfect. When Alex doesn’t need perfect.
She needs real.
One more time.
I hit record. Close my eyes. Let the words come.
“Alex.”
My voice cracks immediately. Good. That’s real.
“Hi. I’m—fuck, I’m standing on Passyunk in my pajamas talking to my phone like a crazy person, so that’s where we’re at.”
A car honks. Someone shouts in Spanish. Normal Saturday sounds.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were right. About everything. About listening, about trying, about Dahlia. I’ve been making this about me—my fear, my disbelief, my need for proof—when you were just asking me to trust you. And I didn’t.”
My voice breaks.
“I made you feel like your gifts didn’t matter. Like YOU didn’t matter. And that’s?—”
I have to stop. Breathe. Keep going.
“You’re my person, Alex. My dandelion. You’ve been growing through concrete since we were twelve and I’ve been watchingyou do impossible things our entire friendship and I STILL didn’t believe you. How fucked up is that?”
The wind picks up. I pull my coat tighter.
“I went to this witch shop. Found you the perfect present. But that’s not—you don’t want a present. You want me to show up. Actually show up. Not joke, not deflect, not organize the fear into neat little boxes I can control.”
Quieter now. Almost whispering.
“I’m listening now. I promise I’m listening. To you. To Dahlia. To whatever the fuck my intuition has been screaming at me for weeks. I’m done pretending I don’t hear it.”
A long pause. Traffic sounds. My breathing.
“Your birthday’s next week. I know you probably don’t want to see me. Villa di Roma. Wednesday at seven. With dandelion wine and your present and—just. Please come home. Please don’t leave me alone with this. I can’t do this without you.”
My voice breaks completely.
“I love you. Dandelions forever. I’m sorry.”
I let the recording run for a few more seconds. The sound of me falling apart.
Then I hit stop.
Stare at the voice memo. 2 minutes, 47 seconds of me being the most honest I’ve been in weeks.
My thumb hovers over the delete button.
Because hitting send means more than apologizing. It means admitting that logic didn’t save me. That all my careful lawyer training and belief in the system couldn’t organize this nightmare into something I could control.
It means choosing her truth over my comfort.
It means my dad really is just gone. Not watching over me. Just... gone.
It means I can’t un-know what I know now.
I hit send.
