Remembering an ad I saw at work for a movie, I quickly scan the times at our theater and send one to them.And pizza after,I add, hoping food will lighten the deal.
They all reply with a simple thumbs up, which makes my heart sink. Am I letting them down by choosing something simple? It’s not that I don’t appreciate spending time together, it’s that I literally don’t have the mental energy to figure it out. Depression makes everything that much harder.
Declan and Piper know of my diagnosis, but sometimes, I think they don’t really get it.
I wish they did. I need someone to.
Another thought occurs to me that makes shame coil in my belly. If I can’t handle the simple task of planning an afternoon with my friends, how did I ever believe I could handle traveling alone? All the planning that’s required to go from one place to another? The maps and reservations? It seems so fucking impossible now.
Feeling low, I head to bed. It’s the only safe place for me when my mind is cruel.
Just as I am about to doze off, Miles messages me:You there?
I almost don’t reply. The effort of talking, of having to form words is just… exhausting.
Me:Yeah.
Miles:I’m just getting up. I’m annoyed I wasted my day.
I don’t reply.
Miles:I try to be up earlier on my days off so I don’t waste them, but I guess I needed the sleep.
Is he saying I’ve kept him up too late lately? We’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. chatting almost every night.
Again, I don’t reply.
Miles:You at work? I can leave you alone.
Me:No. Off tonight and tomorrow.
Miles:Really? Me too.
A few seconds later, Miles calls me via video. I almost decline, but seeing his face is comforting. Like a soft light cast in my dark world.
His hair is messy, and he’s huddled in bed with blankets pulled up to his chin. His glasses are askew too. It’s unbelievably cute.
He’sunbelievably cute.
He smiles at me before stifling a yawn. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
I roll to my back, forcing a small smile as I hold the camera above me and tuck an arm under my head.
“Wait, are you in bed too?” he asks.
“Guilty.”
He seems amused, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Did I wake you or something?”
“No.”
He hesitates. “You okay then? You seem… I don’t know, off?”
Something tugs at my heart. I’ve only ever told Declan and Piper about my diagnosis. If anyone else knows, they’ve figured it out on their own. I just don’t like talking about it. I don’t even like thinking about it. It makes me angry. I hate that I was borndifferent, that I have to work twice as hard to feel normal. To feelstable,let alone happy.
Joy shouldn’t require this much effort.
