The soup simmers. I ladle it into a bowl. Add a few crackers to the side of the tray. A glass of water. The antibiotics he needs to take with food.
I stare at the tray for a long moment.
This is strange.
All of it.
Having another person in my apartment. Hearing someone else breathe in the next room. Knowing that when I walk down the hallway, I won't be alone.
I've been alone for so long.
Waking up by myself. Eating by myself. Watching television by myself. Going to bed by myself.
I don't date. I tried, once. A guy from work asked me to coffee. He was nice. Normal. Had a normal job and a normal smile and normal hands that probably had never held a gun.
We sat across from each other at a café downtown. He talked about his hobbies. Hiking. Craft beer. Fantasy football.
I smiled and nodded and felt absolutely nothing.
When he leaned in to kiss me goodnight, I flinched so hard he stepped back like I'd slapped him.
I never called him again.
I don't have friends either. Not real ones. I have colleagues at the nonprofit. People I eat lunch with sometimes. People who ask how my weekend was and accept my vague answers without pushing.
But no one I call at midnight when I can't sleep. No one who knows about the scars. No one who's seen me cry.
Just Sophia. And I've been avoiding her calls for weeks.
I pick up the tray.
The weight of it feels strange in my hands. I'm not used to carrying food to someone else. Not used to taking care of anyone but myself.
I walk down the hallway. My footsteps are quiet on the carpet. The apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.
I stop outside the bedroom door.
Take a breath.
Push it open.
Dante is sitting up now. Propped against the headboard with pillows behind his back. His phone is in his hands. He's typing something. His thumbs move across the screen with practiced ease.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
I stand in the doorway, holding the tray, watching him text.
Someone is on the other end of that message. Someone he's talking to. Someone who matters enough that he's using his limited energy to communicate with them.
A girlfriend, maybe.
Of course he has someone. A man like Dante doesn't spend two years alone. He's not broken like me. He's not hiding in a one-bedroom apartment, pretending to be normal while the walls close in.
He probably has a woman in Chicago. Someone beautiful and confident. Someone who knows what he does for a living and doesn't care. Someone who waits for him to come home at night.
Someone he chose to text instead of me.
The anger rises before I can stop it.
