Hey, just checking in. How’s everything going? Built anything interesting lately?
Before I can respond, another message comes in.
I started watching season four of BattleBots. I see what you mean about some of the wedges being too close to the ground.
My lips tug up in spite of themselves. I shake my head in amusement as I quickly type my response.
Season four? Already?
Three dots blink for a few seconds.
I’ve been watching an episode or two every night.
When he can’t sleep, is the part he doesn’t mention. But I’d bet anything that’s the case. Unless something’s changed since he stayed at my place last year, Ace struggles through bad nightmares, just like me.
I don’t know what his nightmares are about—he never told me, and I didn’t ask. Not when I wasn’t exactly volunteering the gruesome memories that visited me every night. But I do know something bad happened to Ace’s Green Beret team. Something so terrible, it served as the catalyst for Ace leaving it to join Delta instead.
We didn’t need to share the details, really. It was enough just to know someone else understood. It was having someone to sit with, to talk about simpler things like robot designs and ridiculous commercials and whether it would rain the next day or actually be sunny for a change.
That’s why, despite my deep embarrassment over Ace seeing me falling apart in Tacoma, I would never dream of not responding to his texts, which have grown in frequency from a few times a month to nearly every day over the last two weeks.
I know why. He’s worried about me. Which is nice, but also humiliating. I don’t want Ace worrying. I don’t want him thinking that I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown and having panic attacks every day.
I’m not, for the record. I’ve been jumpier than usual, yes, and I may check my security system more often than I normally would, but I haven’t had another panic attack since that night.
To be fair, I haven’t done much thatcouldtrigger a panic attack. Aside from work and class, I’ve spent most of my time at home, where I feel safest. Watching BattleBots, cleaning, working on my most recent project in my garage—all activities where there’s little chance of being triggered.
My phone’s screen goes dark, reminding me I still haven’t replied to Ace’s last message. So I tap the screen to wake it, then quickly type my response.
You can always text while you’re watching. If you have a question about a robot or something. I’ll probably be up.
A few seconds pass before he responds.
I may do that.
And then.
Are you doing okay?
My chest tightens.
That prickle in my nose is back.
Part of me wants to tell him the truth. That no, I’m not okay. That ever since that night at the event, I’ve felt off-kilter and nothing like the confident Yara I try to present myself as.
What I want to say, in my deepest heart of hearts, is that I desperately miss those late nights with him. That it’s not the same, sitting on my couch all alone. That I miss spending time with him.
Ace would come if I asked. I know he would. But that would be admitting I’m not okay, which I really don’t want to do.
Instead, I stick with a much safer response.
Absolutely. Everything’s great.
A few seconds pass before Ace answers.
Okay. You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.
My throat goes thick.
