Not him. Just some guy in a suit heading to work.
I sag against the glass. Stupid. Of course it’s not him. It’s only been two days. He said two weeks. I have twelve more days of this.
Twelve more days of checking my phone every five minutes. Twelve more days of jumping at every sound. Twelve more days of going to bed alone and waking up to nothing.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.
And I hate that I’m this person now. The one who can’t function without a man. The one whose world stops spinning when he’s not there.
I dated Evan for six years. Six. Years.
And I don’t remember ever feeling this way when he traveled for work. Never counted the hours. Never checked my phone every five minutes. Never curled up around his pillow because I missed him so much my chest hurt.
I was fine. Relieved, even. His absence meant space. Meant I didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to be the girlfriend he kept around but never really saw.
I was alone even when he was there.
But this is different.
This isn’t some ex-boyfriend I’m mourning. This isn’t Evan’s half-hearted texts.
This is Anton. Who looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. Who puts his hand on my stomach like he’s protecting something sacred. Who told me he loves me in Russian first because he was too scared to say it in English.
This is the first time I’ve ever been loved back.
Really loved. Not tolerated. Not settled for. Not kept around until something better comes along.
Loved. Wanted.Chosen.
And that’s what makes this unbearable.
Because I finally know what it feels like to be someone’s first choice. To be the person they come home to. To be loved so completely that even two weeks feels like drowning.
I spent my whole life being less than. Less interesting. Less pretty. Less worth staying for.
And now I’mmore. More than I thought I could be. More than anyone ever saw in me.
And he’s the one who made me believe it.
My phone buzzes.
I lunge for it so fast I almost trip over the sheets.
Dima:Eat something.
Not Anton. Of course not Anton.
I stare at the text. Two words. Bossy. Direct. Peak Dima.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should respond. Should sayokayorfineor literally anything.
Instead, I set the phone down. Crawl back into bed. Pull Anton’s pillow against my chest.
I miss Gordo.
The thought hits me sideways. Stupid. Random. But there it is.
Gordo, with his judgmental stare and his bread-loaf body, and the way he used to sit on my chest at 6 AM, demanding breakfast.
