The envelope feels heavy.
Official.
I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside.
My fingers tighten around the envelope.
I should open it.
I know I should.
It would be the mature thing to do.
But opening it means reading it.
And reading it means reality.
And reality means acknowledging it.
And acknowledging it means dealing with it.
I just can’t.
God, this is depressing.
I don’t want to face any of it.
I want to disappear into my painting instead.
Before I can change my mind, I move to my studio corner and slide the envelope into the bottom drawer of my flat file cabinet, tucking it beneath a stack of unfinished sketches and old charcoal studies.
I close the drawer carefully.
There.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Except my mind is a spoiled little brat and refuses to cooperate.
I exhale hard and stare at the drawer. My heart is still racing, but now it’s mixed with something else. Something like guilt, but also… defiance. Like I’m pushing back against an invisible hand on my shoulder.
My phone is in my back pocket. I pull it out and open my messages without thinking too much, because thinking too much is how I end up crying in a bathroom.
My sister’s name sits there like a bruise.
Katia.
I hover over the thread, thumb suspended, and I hate how quickly my chest tightens. Hate how automatic it is. Like my body knows disappointment before my brain even catches up.
I scroll the the most recent messages.
Me:
You okay?
It is unread. So is the one before that.
