Not back toward class. Not toward the gym.
Toward the bus stop.
The condo iswrong in daylight. We’re almost never here at this hour. The sun comes in at a different angle, throwing bars of light across the carpet. The TV is a black mirror. The couch looks abandoned and the plant by the window droops because I forgot to water it this week.
I drop my backpack by the door, kicking off my shoes and my keys miss the hook and hit the floor with a small clatter. My head is buzzing. Not even loud, just… constant. That radio cracking with static underneath everything, a voice threadbare from repeating the same lines.
You’re too much.
You’re exhausting.
Everyone is doing their best with you. You could make it easier.
I walk into the kitchen.
The safety plan is still on the fridge, waiting for me like a pop quiz.
Without really deciding to, I pull it down.
My eyes skim the lines I’ve read a hundred times. The ones Dr. K had me write and the ones Miguel insisted on adding. I lean my forehead against the cool metal door, paper crunching between us.
“I know,” I tell it. “I know, I know. I helped write you.”
I imagine calling Dr. K.
“Hey, so here’s a fun update. The man who spent my childhood deciding if I was worth food and would beat me diedand my brain is writing him a eulogy and also planning my exit strategy. Wild, right?”
I imagine her voice, steady and calm and a little strained. Her hint of panic never quite showed, but I’d hear it anyway. I imagine the scramble—the extra sessions, the gentle insistence, the concern.
She has other clients. Other emergencies. Other kids of monsters.
I imagine calling Miguel.
“Miggy, so… You know the piece of shit who helped my mom abuse me? He’s dead. And my brain is sliding around like a car on black ice. Also, I know you almost got electrocuted. Also, I know you’re working and trying really hard not to treat every text like a grenade. Surprise.”
He’d come.
He’d drop everything and show up, probably with his boots still dusty and his hands still smelling like copper. His face would do that thing where it goes tight and soft at the same time. He’d touch my jaw, my shoulders and inspect me like I might be missing pieces.
He shouldn’t have to.
My hand shakes as I pull my phone out.
Caleb
Hey. I came home early. I’m having some really bad thoughts.
I stare at the words.
The letters swim. My thumb hovers over send.
The noise in my head hisses.
You’re doing this again. Needing. Breaking. Asking.
Miguel will answer. He always does. And then he’ll be tired. And you’ll see it. And you’ll say, “I’m sorry,” and he’ll say, “Don’t apologize,” but the apology will hang between you anyway.
I delete the text letter by letter until the bubble is empty.
