I want to, but I don’t. Not because she wouldn’t understand, but because the thing I want to talk about isn’t the shooting, or the funerals, or the fucked-up therapy sessions.
It’s the way I can’t stop replaying every second with Ash, how the memory of his laugh, or his stupid chipped nails, is more addictive than any drug I’ve ever tried.
Instead, I say, “It’s just a phase. I’ll get over it.”
She lets out a sigh, soft, resigned. “You always do this, D. You wall up, and then you try to smash your way through it alone. It’s okay to need help.”
I want to say something cutting, something that will end this conversation, but I bite it back.
I force myself to look at her, really look, and I see the way the light catches the gold flecks in her eyes, the little twitch at the corner of her mouth when she’s about to say something that matters.
But the only thing I can think is, I wonder what Ash would look like in this light.
She puts her fork down. “You want to go back to your place? We could watch a movie or just…not talk for a while.”
I want to say yes. I want to want to say yes.
But all I can picture is sitting on the couch, her head on my shoulder, and how it wouldn’t feel right, not even a little.
I lie. “I’m wiped. I should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a double.”
She nods, not angry, just tired. “Okay. But maybe next week, yeah?”
“Yeah. Next week.”
We pay the bill. She doesn’t try to hug me, just gives my arm a squeeze and heads for the door.
I watch her go, the click of her heels a Morse code of everything we didn’t say.
I step outside, breathe in the city air, wet concrete, ozone, the sour tang of spilled beer from a bar down the block, and for a minute I just stand there, letting the night press against my skin.
I dig my phone from my pocket and type a message to Ash, “You up?”
It’s 9:30, and he replies before I can even lock the screen, “Always. You need something?”
I stare at the message for a long time, thumbs hovering.
Finally, I type, “Meet you at the track tomorrow?”
His reply comes in a heartbeat. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
I walk to the train, hands shoved deep in my pockets, and tell myself that tomorrow I’ll be better, that tomorrow I’ll make sense of this mess.
But right now, all I want is to see him, to see if the dream is better than the memory.
I stand on the platform, watch the lights blur past, and wonder if anyone else in this city is as broken as me.
But I don’t really care.
I just want to run until I can’t remember why I started.
———
At night, the city sounds different.
Less about traffic and construction, more about the weird, feral shit that happens when people think nobody is listening, dogs barking into the void, glass breaking a few blocks over, some lost tourist singing too loud in the alley.
My apartment is on the fourth floor, but I hear all of it, the walls thin enough that I can track every footstep, every elevator whine, every neighbor’s Netflix binge through the Sheetrock.
