“I will.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
When we hang up, I sit on the edge of my bed fully dressed, staring at the wall like I’ve forgotten how to lie down.
I don’t feel sick.
I feel emptied out.
The morning comes and I don’t move.
The alarm goes off.
I shut it off.
It goes off again.
I shut it off again.
Eventually, I call out sick.
I never do that.
I dial the office, leave a message with reception about not feeling well, my voice steady enough to pass. Then I hang up and let the phone rest on my chest like it weighs a hundred pounds.
She calls an hour later.
“You sound awful,” she says immediately. “Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so,” I lie. “Just… drained.”
“I can still come by,” she insists. “I’ll stay on the other side of the couch. I’ll clean.”
“No,” I say, firmer now. “Please. I just need today.”
Silence.
Then softer: “Okay. But I’m worried about you.”
“I know.”
I hang up and roll onto my side, staring at the rain sliding down the window.
I think about changing the locks.
The thought flickers through my head, sharp and fast — then disappears just as quickly.
I’m not ready.
Not because I’m scared.
Because I need to understand how the hell I got here.
Because I’m embarrassed.
Embarrassed that I didn’t see this coming.
