I should feel clever. Amused. Even a little smug that I organized such a great gift. I’ve spent three days putting it together. Tracking down his favorite stuff in his favorite color, including the cardboard box. I even ordered the stickers off a website—because apparently the local craft store doesn’t stock “personal” stickers.
All of this is peak Miles effort: thoughtful, extra, totally ridiculous.
So why do I feel like shit?
I slump on the edge of the couch with the box open in front of me. Seven weeks. It’s been seven weeks since we’ve seen each other, but it might as well be a fucking eternity for how long it feels. I should be thrilled that Jordan is doing what he needs to do and getting the help he needs, and I am. Truly. I’m beyond proud of him. But inside, I feel… hollow. Like maybe I need that blanket more than he does.
Which just makes me feel worse.
I press my fingers to my eyes and blow out a breath. “Don’t be selfish,” I whisper.
Jordan started the medication transition about three weeks ago, and I know—I know—this part is supposed to be messy. The psych doc warned him it would take time. “Adjustment period,” she said, like naming it would make it any easier.
It doesn’t.
This fucking blows!
Jordan is tired all the time. Sleeping through his alarms, napping on his days off, sometimes just spacing out on the couch for whole chunks of the day. Declan told me the other day that he’s missed work a few times too, which is something he’s never done before.
Which means, even before, when he was at his lowest, Jordan never skipped work. And he is now, when he’s supposed to be getting better. That’s not a good sign, right?
Fear is choking me. All I can think about, worry about, is him slipping back to his dark place. I’m terrified he’s having suicidal thoughts again, so I cling to the only thing I can, his friends.
I pick up my phone to message Declan.
Me:Have you seen him? Talked to him?
I hold my breath as I wait for a reply. It comes within seconds.
Declan:Just went by his house this morning. Seth went yesterday, and Piper the day before that. He’s doing okay, Miles. I promise. Just taking it slow. I think he knows he can’t push himself.
Me:Is something wrong? Why are you guys going by so often?
Declan:We’re just checking in on him. Taking him food since he doesn’t have the energy to cook. He’s still working as much as he can, but… Let’s just say I’m missing him too. It’s rough. For all of us. How are you? You okay?
Me:Managing…
Declan:I figured. I’m here. We all are. Message us anytime.
I clutch my phone, like Declan’s words can somehow ground me.
Me:Do you think I should come see him?
I’d have to swap shifts to get the time off, or possibly threaten to quit. But if Jordan needs me…
Declan:No. You don’t want to see him like this, Miles. Trust me. Let us take care of him for you. We need to trust the doctor and the meds. Jordan’s doing what he needs to.
I let my head fall back on the couch. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m just full of worry.
Jordan uses anchors to get him through his dark spots, but every time I try, they do nothing for me. Every memory only makes me ache more. Makes me more terrified he won’t get out of this. What I need is physical. I need to be touched, hugged, to feel a physical connection. Or even hear his voice.
Would it be too much to ask Jordan to record himself for me? Or is that like, super clingy boyfriend stuff?
Ugh, no. I can’t ask that of him. I need to be strong.
I reread Jordan’s messages. They’ve become shorter and shorter this week, and less… him. Like his heart isn’t in themanymore. He still calls, but even when we do video chat, he’s not there. Quiet and barely listening. I hate it.
I hate all of this.
