The texts from my side get fewer.
Not because I care less.
Because I’ve learned — finally, after twelve years — that reaching gets exhausting when nothing reaches back.
I’m just chasing someone that doesn’t want to be chased.
Or doesn’t think I’m worth a text.
I’m not angry.
That’s the thing I can’t explain to Mara when she finally, gently, asks.
“I’m not angry,” I say. “I don’t have the energy to be angry. I just feel like I’m watching something happen from very far away and I can’t get there in time.”
She looks at me.
She sees what I’m not saying.
That I’m drowning slowly, in real time, but can’t find the energy to kick myself back up to the surface anymore.
“Ro,” she says. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“How many pills does sleeping take now.”
I don’t answer.
Because it’s not a question. She knows.
She puts her hand over mine.
Doesn’t say anything else.
She’s learning.
• • •
March.
He goes quiet.
Not the pulling-back kind of quiet.
The other kind.
The total kind.
The kind that landed me in the hospital that one time.
Days pass with nothing.
I send a text.
Hey.
Read.
