I know you’re coming back, Ro.
That’s it.
That’s the whole response.
I sit with it.
I don’t know why it lands the way it does.
It should be reassuring.
He said he knows.
But something about the way it’s worded.
Not I can’t wait or I’ll be here.
Just —
I know.
Like it’s information he already has.
Settled.
Decided.
Like it’s not something he’s looking forward to.
Just something he knows is going to happen.
I close my phone and try to breathe.
• • •
February.
The texts stop coming from his side almost entirely.
I’m sending everything.
Good mornings and stupid memes and photos of things that remind me of him — a car I don’t know the name of but I know he likes, a dumb fish at the aquarium exhibit near campus Jonah dragged me to, a song that came on shuffle that I know he likes.
He reacts to them sometimes.
A like.
A thumbs up.
A thumbs up.
Are you kidding me?
• • •
I send him a voice memo at two in the morning on a night when the pills aren’t enough and the quiet is too loud and I’ve been staring at the hoodie I stole from him because I caved like I always cave.
Hey. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m really not. I just — I miss you and I don't know what’s happening and I’m scared to ask because every time I ask it gets worse somehow. So I’m just saying it into your voicemail instead. I miss you. I love you. I’m not doing okay. Please call me.
