My chest loosens immediately, and I type before I can talk myself out of it.
LittleTooMuch: You awake?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
NumberEleven: unfortunately. you?
I smile into my pillow.
LittleTooMuch: Unfortunately.
NumberEleven: we should start a club.
LittleTooMuch: I thought we already did.
NumberEleven: fair. our club is just suffering.
LittleTooMuch:And sarcasm.
NumberEleven:the healthiest coping skill.
I snort softly.
I hesitate, then type the truth I can handle.
LittleTooMuch: I talked to someone in real life today without being forced and didn’t combust.
A pause, then?—
NumberEleven: that’s really good. proud of you.
My chest tightens. I stare at the screen, unsure what to say.
Then, because honesty is easier here, I type what I can’t say to anyone else.
LittleTooMuch: Sometimes being fine is harder than being not fine.
LittleTooMuch: When I’m not fine, at least it makes sense.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
His reply comes slower, like he’s choosing his words.
NumberEleven: i get that.
NumberEleven: fine can feel like walking on ice that might crack at any second.
My stomach flips. I stare at the line for too long. Walking on ice that might crack. It’s a metaphor. A good one. Plenty of people could think of that.
Still—my skin prickles.
I type anyway, forcing it light.
LittleTooMuch: Wow. Poetic.
NumberEleven: don’t spread rumors.
LittleTooMuch: Too late.
