She shepherds me into a black SUV, tells me not to worry, that someone will handle the media, just focus on myself for now.
I want to say something mean, but I don’t have the energy for it.
As the car pulls away, I catch a glimpse of my own face in the side mirror. I don’t recognize the guy staring back.
———
At home, the world is too quiet.
Every clock is loud, every tick a slap in the ear.
The apartment is dark except for the city-glow leaking in through the blinds, striping the walls in bars of dirty orange.
I hang my jacket by the door, line my shoes up perfectly in the rack, and sit on the edge of the couch because if I settle in I’ll never get up again.
My phone buzzes. I know it’s her before I even look.
I let it ring out once, twice, then pick up.
Nia’s voice is shredded raw, like she’s already been crying for hours and I’m just the last call on the list.
“D?” she says, and just my name is enough to start her off again, the soft, ragged sob that cracks through the line like bad static.
I don’t say anything. I just listen.
“I saw you on TV. Are you… did they hurt you?” She’s breathing hard, like she sprinted here. “Are you okay?”
I look at my hands, palms up, as if expecting to find the answer written there. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Nobody is fine after that. They said on the news you?—”
“Don’t believe the news, Nia.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, and for a second it almost sounds normal, like the old days when all we had to worry about was who’d get the last slice of pizza or whether I’d ever beat her at Mario Kart.
There’s a pause, a real one, the kind that makes space for truth if you let it.
“I wish I could see you,” she says, quiet.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Are you alone?” she asks, and I can hear the dread behind it.
“I’m alone.”
The words sit there, heavy and final.
She’s sniffling now, trying to muffle it, but I hear every wet inhale. “You don’t have to talk, okay? I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I wonder what she wants from me. Comfort? Confession? Some kind of closure?
I try to say something, anything, but all I manage is, “Thanks for calling.”
Nia’s breath hitches, like I punched the air right out of her. “Of course. You know I care about you, right?”
I want to say I know, I want to say I care about her too, but the words turn to dust in my throat.
Instead I say, “Get some sleep,” and hang up.
