I send one more text.
Cassian. I’m not okay. I need you to answer me. Please.
He reads it at 11am.
At 9pm he responds.
I know. I m sorry. I’m trying.
I stare at those two words.
I’m trying.
Something about that.
Not I’m fine or I’ll call or I’ve got you.
I’m trying.
Like it’s costing him something.
Like there’s something in the way.
Like he’s fighting something I can’t see from here.
Or maybe I’m too much and he just can’t deal with me right now.
• • •
I want to ask.
I want to call and say — what are you trying, what is it, let me in, please let me in, I have been standing at your door my entire life because I love you.
I don’t.
Because I know him.
I know that when he says I’m trying he means it.
And I know that pushing right now will make the door close faster.
So I wait.
I take two pills and get in bed and pull the hoodie over my face and breathe him in.
He’s still there in the fabric.
Faintly.
Getting fainter.
I close my eyes.
I’m so tired of waiting.
I’m so tired of being the only one who refuses to let go.
But I don’t know how to be anything else.
