15
Donut You Forget about Me
Followyourdreams.
Try.
Don’t let endo take this from you too.
Past Me can be the absolute worst sometimes. Especially on a good day when I willfully ignore the wholeyou’re still chronically ill, even if you feel okay and you’re-going-to-crash-and-burn-again-soonreality.
I narrow my gaze at a sheet dotted with facts and figures I found in the avalanche of paperwork that nearly crushed my toes two days ago in my flare. It’s an application for a small business grant that I almost finished before I let it die in my graveyard of a room. Wrapped in the adult equivalent of a diaper because I’m bleeding from multiple places thanks to my period, couch-bound again, and bored, I decided maybe I should at least read over this stuff before the deadline passes next month. Not like there’s much else I can do right now anyway.
Truthfully, the grant is a great opportunity, but if I got it, the shop would have to be somewhere in the US. At this point, with an expiring visa and Maria moving out, I shouldn’t turn my nose up at anything.
Rain patters along the windowsill, and I snuggle into my heating pad. The extra heat is appreciated on this freezing spring day as I stare at various forms spread across my coffee table in an unwelcomed state. I would much prefer it to be littered with an abundance of baguette sleeves instead ofthis.
Hell on paper.
Math.
Logic.
Quantifying my self-worth.
Fighting for my dreams seems an awful lot like hard, tedious work.
What a scam.
Sighing, I read over my lists of expenses. The word “storefront” sits at the top with a blank space.
I can’t fill in an estimation until I knowwhereI would want to open the shop, but that answer isn’t so simple. It’s what tripped me up and forced me to put the application aside the first time. Massachusetts seems out of the question, given its proximity to my mother. Still, the thought of starting over without anyone I know in a different state is a terribly lonely prospect, even for this hermit.
How does one even make friends as an adult? Not to mention my giant impediment of a disease. I’d have to start every new friendship with a disclaimer like “Hi, my name is Evie, and I have endometriosis, so when I bail on social plans, please do not think I’m flaky or ghosting you. I probably like your company a lot.” Or else deal with the anxiety that I will eventually flake, and they’ll never know why.
Chill, Evie.My palms shake, and I breathe, calming my racing thoughts. I’m spiraling unnecessarily over hypotheticals. Time for a break.
My phone chimes as if in agreement.
LIAM: Hey. How are you feeling today?
My heart summersaults at the sight of his name on my screen.
Two days ago, when I woke up after my drug-induced nap on his chest, I had a sneaking suspicion that Liam’s arms could shelter me from just about anything. His thumb lightly stroked my hand as a low hum vibrated in my chest. I was going to tell him—maybe not everything, but enough for him to know he no longer felt like a storm I had to weather, but the safe harbor I looked forward to returning to. But I didn’t have a chance because Maria’s return to the apartment sprung Liam from my bed. A heavy weariness sat in his shoulders, and he vacated the premises in a haste once he made sure I was okay.
I didn’t tell Maria on our walk yesterday how I ended up falling asleep on him.
Or that I confirmed he’s the one who’s been sending me the postcards.
Even though I’m dying to dissect both with her.
She’d be overly insufferable with her “encouragement” to tell him the whole truth, and I need time to marinate on the situation and come to my own decision. I’m going to tell him everything, I think. Probably. No, I definitely will. I just need to collect my thoughts a bit more.
ME: Much better, actually. Looks like the doctor’s orders were just what I needed.
LIAM: Glad to hear it. Are you home right now?
ME: Yeah, what’s up?
