Me:
Please just tell me you’re alive.
My messages are a string of attempts, stacked like unanswered prayers.
I type another one anyway.
Me:
Hey. Just checking in. I miss you. Please text me when you can.
I stare at it for a second, then hit send.
Delivered.
And then nothing.
Of course.
I toss the phone onto my bed and press my palms against my eyes. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing through the familiar ache in my chest.
Then I pick up my paintbrush.
Because this is better than any therapy I’ve ever had.
My dad thinks it’s just a hobby. A phase. Something I’ll outgrow once I finally “get serious.”
The smell of acrylics wraps around me like a blanket. I pick up my palette and begin to paint.
***
For the next few days, I do what I always do when my life is too loud.
I make it quieter with color.
Morning comes and goes without me noticing.
My dad’s schedule runs like a machine—practices, meetings, film review, booster calls.
Sometimes I hear his voice in the hallway, barking into the phone. Sometimes I hear his front door open and close, but I don’t see him much.
It’s like we’re two enemies occupying the same territory.
When we do cross paths, we’re polite.
But it takes everything in me not to throw the words at him.
What did you do?
Why don’t you care?
Do you know that I got married?
I live in his house.
But I move through it like a ghost.
I paint until my shoulders ache. I paint until my hands cramp. I paint big canvases that swallow my frustrations whole, and small ones that feel like secrets.
