Embarrassed that I let something this intense take over my life.
Embarrassed that I’m sitting alone in my apartment pretending to be sick so my girlfriend won’t come over.
How do you explain that to anyone?
You don’t.
You just sit with it.
I buy myself days.
Three.
Maybe four.
I check in with her by phone. Short calls. Reassuring ones. I tell her I’m still run down. Still not quite right.
She fusses. She worries. She backs off — barely.
I go back to work on Friday like nothing’s happened.
The weekend is gray and wet, rain misting the sidewalks, killing any excuse for parties or boats or afternoons on the docks.
We go to a movie.
Dinner after.
Normal. Polite. Almost easy.
I’m quiet. I blame it on still feeling under the weather. She accepts it, though she watches me more closely than usual, like she’s waiting for something to surface.
On Saturday she goes to the gym.
Takes classes.
Gets coffee.
Does her grocery shopping.
She moves through the world like everything’s fine.
And I let her.
I sleep in.
I say I’m tired.
I buy time.
Because somewhere deep down, I already know this isn’t going to end with a happy ending for anyone.
What we have has turned into a dumpster fire — a beautiful one, a warm one, but still a fire that’s jumped the tracks and is burning everything in its path.
And I’m standing too close to it, trying to figure out how to step away without getting burned alive.
So I hide the truth.
Just a little longer.
