This hollow version? I don't know what to do with this, and I don't fucking like it.
"Lyla made breakfast?—"
She interrupts me.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat." I brace myself for an argument. Instead, she sighs.
"Okay."
She doesn't move from her spot at the window, and I stand there, uncertain of what to do next. This feels wrong. All of it is fucking wrong.
"I have meetings today," I tell her. "But tonight, we'll have dinner together. Just us." I move toward the door. "Get some rest. Shower. Take care of yourself."
"Okay."
I leave, telling myself it's fine. It's only been three days. Of course she's still processing.
This is normal.
By tonight, things will be better.
And we can start moving forward.
They're not better that night.
Dinner is silent. I try to start conversations. Ask about her day. Tell her about mine.
She responds with one-word answers and pushes food around her plate. She's dressed and showered. Technically, she did what I asked, and yet, it's like she's not even here, and I fucking hate it.
I'm frustrated, and I feel helpless, which is new for me.
"You're not eating," I observe.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat, Gemma. You're getting too thin."
She takes a bite. Chews mechanically. Swallows. Her face shows nothing.
I had Lyla make her favorite meal, and yet, it's like she couldn't care less.
I'm watching a doll move—it's eerie.
"Marcello asked about you today," I try. "Wants to know if you're settling back in."
"That's nice."
"I told him you're fine. You are fine, right?"
"Yes."
Her eyes are glassy, out of focus.
"Gemma." I reach across the table for her hand. She doesn't pull away. Doesn't react at all. Her hand feels like ice. "Talk to me."
"What would you like me to say?"
