I’m not hungry anymore.
I get food anyway because Mara is watching me from the table with the specific expression that means she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
I sit down.
She doesn’t say anything.
Just hands me a fork.
I eat.
• • •
November.
He posts something on Instagram.
I see it at midnight when I can’t sleep.
The way you always see things at midnight when you can’t sleep because your brain has decided that’s exactly when you should see them.
When it’s dark and you’re alone and barely hanging on.
He’s at some party.
Someone’s house.
People I don’t know.
He looks fine.
More than fine.
He looks like a person who is out on a Friday night being young and alive and not thinking about anyone eight hundred miles away staring at their ceiling.
He looks good.
I hate that he looks good.
I love that he looks good.
These two things coexist and neither of them help me.
• • •
I take two pills.
Put my phone face down.
Stare at the ceiling.
At 2am I pick the phone back up.
Open Instagram.
Look at the photo again.
Put the phone down.
