"It would mean so much to all of us if you could come," she interrupted gently. "It's been ages since we've seen you, dear."
"Okay," I heard myself say.
Her relief was almost tangible through the phone. "Thank you, Kimmy. You have no idea how happy that makes me. I'll have my girls all to myself for a few hours." She sounded giddy.
I nodded as if she could see me. "I'll be there."
Why did you say that, Kimmy?
There was a small pause. A rustle, as if she were shifting the phone to her other hand. "I know things have been difficult for you lately with all that workload," Margaret said, her tone cautious but full of care. "But I worry that you're..."
"Isolating?" I filled in, trying to make it a joke and failing.
"Well, yes." She sighed. "It's not good to be alone all the time, dear."
"I'm working," I said, which was only half a lie. "I'm keeping busy."
"You need more than work, Kimmy. You need people. You sit home all day, every day."
"It's called work from home, Mom."
"You can always talk to me." Her voice wavered a little like she felt I wasn't okay, like she felt that something had happened.
"I know," I said softly, guilt and gratitude curling in my chest. "I promise, I'm fine." I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down.
"Dinner's at six," she supplied, finally. "Bring an appetite."
"I will. Bye, Mom."
I pulled the phone away from my ear, my finger drifting to the red button. Her voice stopped me.
"And Kimmy?"
"Yes?"
"It's good to hear your voice."
My grip tightened. "Yours too," I whispered, then ended the call before she could say more.
I stood there, looking at my reflection in the window of a nearby building. A pale young woman with strawberry blonde hair and big, uncertain eyes stared back.
I didn't recognize her, not anymore.
The street moved around me, endless, impatient. I drew in a deep breath, as if I could inhale some courage along with the city air.
My apartment was a soundless void, its silence dense enough to hold me together.
I perched at my chair in front of my desk, rigid and raw, like a piece of furniture someone forgot to finish.
I worked on forgetting the world outside.
Social media.
Random Google articles.
Plenty of scrolling through search engines.
Checking third-party platforms.
