She listens, pulling back the sheets as she crawls inside, inching toward her end of the mattress. Her end. A dangerous thought for me to be having.
I press play on the television, folding the covers back over as I sit beside her, propping myself against the headboard. She’s beneath the blankets, and I’m on top of them, though I’m not sure what the point of that is when every boundary I’ve attempted to place between us has been obliterated.
She matches my position, pulling the soup into her lap and swirling half her grilled cheese through it before taking a bite. She moans, and my cock immediately jumps.
Adjusting my position to hide it, I clear my throat before asking, “When I grabbed your laptop, I noticed you had a document open. Are you writing again?”
She cuts me a glare, slowing the movement of her chewing. “I told you weeks ago I was writing.”
“I thought you were lying.” I shrug.
“No.” She sets her sandwich down, covering her mouth as she laughs. “I never stopped writing. I always find my fingers moving in some capacity. It’s just that everything that comes out of me now is depressing…or very poorly written.” She sighs. “The things that used to come naturally to me don’t anymore. I’ll never stop being a writer, but…I don’t think I’m an author anymore. Maybe I was never meant to be one, and my career was a short-lived fluke…I don’t know.”
“You were,” I rasp, fiercely enough that her head snaps in my direction. “You are meant for it, Elena. Your words are important.”
She offers a forced, closed lip smile and a small lift of her shoulder. “I’ll keep trying, then.”
“That’s all you can do.” I shrug. “Are you feeling better?”
Her smile grows. “Yeah. Physically, at least. My stomach and my head feel better, my muscles are less sore, but my brain…that’s still a mess.” She snorts. “Although, I’m not so sure that’s from the PMDD. I used to be able to spot it, you know? I could piece apart when I started to feel…” She chews her lip as if searching for the right word. “Crazy, I guess. I knew exactly what was coming, and my anxiety was a tell-tale sign of how bad my symptoms would be that month. But the last few years, I have felt crazy all the time.” She laughs snidely. “I don’t even really track my cycle anymore. I’ll start my period and think, oh, so that’s why I was exceptionally insane last week.”
“What about therapy?” I ask.
Her eyes flash to mine, lip curling before she takes another slow bite of her grilled cheese. “Hard pass.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a laugh. “I swear by it, Elena. It’s done wonders for me, truly.”
“Stop trying to peer pressure me, Augustus,” she mutters with a full mouth.
“Have you ever thought that maybe your grief exacerbates your PMDD, or vice versa? That your diagnosis might be affecting you differently than it does others?” She drops her eyes to her lap but doesn’t respond, so I continue, “Maybe a therapist could help you sort through that. Get you on antidepressants or something that could help.” Her jaw tenses at that suggestion, and I know she’s about to get defensive, so I put my hands up in surrender. “I know years ago you said they didn’t make sense for you and that you didn’t want to take any medication like that, but…you’re suffering differently now, and that’s okay. It’s also okay to treat yourself differently too. You deserve a little grace.”
Her jaw relaxes, but she still doesn’t address me as she continues eating. Elena reminds me of a wounded animal. Defensive and vicious, but it’s only a mask for her fear and pain. Coaxing her into accepting care is like she’s finally let me examine her wounds without biting, and that’s enough for tonight. I stop pressing, settling against my pillows and allowing her to eat and watch her show in peace.
A half hour passes in silence before she asks, “Therapy has helped you?”
“Yeah.” I smile softly. “It really has, I think. Some days are still bad, and I’ll be working through this shit for the rest of my life, but…it doesn’t feel as heavy as it used to.”
She’s on her side, facing me, cheek pressed against her hand on the pillow as she nods. The dim light of the lamp on my bedside casts her in a warm glow, but her eyes are withdrawn and cold. Her dishes are stacked atop the table on her side, her tea now tepid and forgotten beside them.
Because old habits never die, I throw caution to the wind and pull my hoodie over my head, tossing it to the floor beforeflicking off the light and the television, and crawling into bed beside her.
“Can I ask you something else?” she whispers into the darkness.
“You can ask me anything.”
She shuffles closer to me, and on instinct, I open my arm so she can rest her head on my chest. I don’t think either of us meant to let it happen, but cosmic forces seem to be at work when it comes to Elena and me. We don’t have any control over it.
“Did you ever feel like it was your fault?”
The question unsettles me, sends my chest spiraling into the pit of darkness where my soul used to rest. Only the feel of her hair sliding between my fingers keeps me grounded to earth, to this room, and this bed with her.
“Yes.”
“Did therapy help with that?”
I inhale deeply, buying myself time. I know the unspoken question she’s asking, but what I don’t know is how to answer it. Her eyes bore holes through the side of my face, but my gaze remains fixed on the ceiling.
“I think so. Therapy has helped me separate reality from the hauntings of my own mind.” Emotion wells in my eyes, and I bite my cheek, breathing through my nose to quell the burn in my throat. I don’t want her to hear it. “There are things I could’ve done differently that would’ve resulted in a different outcome, and I’ll never escape that, but therapy helped me understand the difference between intention and impact. The impact will always haunt me, but I’ve learned to understand my intentions, and at the very least, I can accept those.”
