Oh, nothing much, just watching my father breathe through a machine.
Delete.
By the way, my dad had a stroke two days ago, but you wouldn’t know because I didn’t tell you.
Delete.
I’m also tutoring Jace, and I let him kiss me.
Delete.
And no, he doesn’t kiss, but I asked him to, and he did.
Delete.
And I promised him it wouldn’t get weird, but all I can think about is his mouth on mine and how I want him to do it again until I can’t breathe.
Delete.
Every version seems either too small or too dramatic. Too casual for something that is swallowing me whole.
I try again now.
Sorry, I’ve just been busy.
Busy.
The word makes my stomach turn. Busy sounds productive. It sounds normal. Busy does not mean sitting beside a hospital bed, counting the seconds between machine beeps, and pretending your heart isn’t in your throat.
How do you condense all of that into a simple reply? How do you fit grief and fear into a text message that won’t make everything blow up?
I stare at the words on the screen until they become blurry. My reflection looks back at me in the dark parts of the display. My eyes appear hollow.
I still haven’t replied to Aubrey’s text from yesterday either.
I left it sitting there, just like this one.
She hasn’t followed up and didn’t send a second message with nothing but question marks.
I have become that friend—the one who disappears. The one who ghosts the group chat and expects everyone to just understand there’s a reason without ever explaining it. The person who withdraws and then becomes upset when things proceed without them.
I hate that version of myself because the truth isn’t that they wouldn’t understand. They would. God, I know they would. It’s just something that I don’t want to explain. I don’t want to unpack the hospital smell still clinging to my clothes. I don’t want to type the word coma and watch it turn real on a screen. I don’t want to say I let Jace kiss me and now I’m tangled in something I promised would stay simple.
It is easier to vanish than to confess.
I toss my phone onto the cushion next to me and watch it bounce once before settling face down.
The room is too silent.
I lean forward and slide my glasses up onto the top of my head, the frames catching in my hair for a second before settling. Everything becomes slightly blurred without them.
I press my palms into my eyes until bursts of color explode behind my lids. Red. Gold. White. Bright enough to almost burn. I push harder, as if the pressure can force grief, fear, and stupid longing for a fuck boy out through my skull.
My breath comes out unevenly against my wrists.
Nothing changes.
The silence stays.
