We talk about the garden.
The cooking class.
The neighbor.
Normal things.
He asks about Cassian once.
Just once.
“We’re figuring it out,” I say.
He doesn’t push.
But I hear what he doesn’t say.
I’ve always been able to hear what the people I love don’t say.
It’s a gift.
It’s a curse.
Mostly it’s exhausting.
• • •
Cassian and I talk maybe once a week now.
Sometimes less.
When we do it’s — fine.
That’s the word.
Fine.
Not warm the way it was.
Not the FaceTime at midnight and the rare smile and hi / hi.
Just — fine.
Like we’re two people who used to know each other very well and are carefully maintaining the outline of that.
I hate fine.
I have always hated fine.
But I take it.
I take whatever he gives me.
I have always taken whatever he gives me.
• • •
February bleeds into March.
