In the weeks that followed, I learned to live in the spaces between replies. I felt like a rejected dog waiting by the door, eager for scraps of attention.
When his texts came, they were late. Always late. Two days, sometimes three. And yet every damn time, I responded right away.
Pathetic was my middle name now. But I couldn’t stop. It felt like there was this unspoken rule that if I made him wait, he’d make me wait even longer. And I couldn’t handle that.
The texts became shorter. Colder. It wasn’t a conversation anymore; it was a post-mortem. Me asking. Him answering. Like this:
Jan 1st:Love, how was your New Year’s Eve? Miss you.
Jan 3rd:Had night shift. It was calm.
Jan 3rd:How is everything going at your place? Did they finish up the kitchen yet?
Jan 7th:No, not yet.
By then, the cracks were impossible to ignore. So, I pushed harder. Said things I shouldn’t have.
Jan 7th:Why does it take you days to respond to my texts?
Jan 8th:Do you still love me?
Jan 8th:Did you ever love me?
Jan 9th:Are you breaking up with me?
Jan 9th:I can’t believe you’re doing this after everything we went through. It’s not fair.
Jan 9th:It’s not fucking fair!
My pride was in shreds by the time I started ranting. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have gone there, but I couldn’t help it. The silence was louder than any of the fireworks from New Year’s Eve.
Jan 10th:Love, what are you doing to me? I can’t handle this anymore.
Jan 10th:Are you riding someone else’s dick? Are you fucking deep diver in jail, or what? At least don’t be such a fucking coward and talk to me if you want to be done with me.
Jan 10th:I’m sorry for my disaster life, and I respect if that’s too much, even for you, Joshua Fennbrae. But this is me. I can’t change that, but I have a lot to give. And if you just turn your back on me like that, it’s your loss. YOUR LOSS! You hear me?
I thought maybe that one would wake him up. Maybe I’d crossed the line so hard he’d have no choice but to finally give me something: anger, closure,anything.Instead, I got this:
Jan 12th:I was at work.
And after that text, I snapped. I swung my phone like a frisbee straight out the window and watched it arc beautifully before landing with a splash in the canal.
It wasn’t enough. I went full demolition mode, tossing out furniture, plates, and grandma's lamp. Anything I could get my hands on. The kind of disaster that only ends when your neighbors start calling the coppers.
Which, of course, they did.
When the police showed up, they wrote me a fine and gave me one of those get your shit together or spend the night in jail talks.
Not exactly how I pictured kicking off the first weeks of the New Year, but there I was. And as much as I wanted to tell them where they could shove their fine, I couldn’t risk jail. Not when I had bigger priorities. Like buying a new phone ASAP so I could text him to say that I loved him, that I didn’t mean any of the shit I said, and beg for forgiveness like the complete idiot I was.
Texting was all I had because he wouldn’t pick up the phone.
But lucky for him, giving up isn’t really my style. I’m persistent. And smart. I remembered he’d given me the number to his pager back when I was at Arcadia. So, like the delulu nutcase I clearly am, I started paging him. Over and over. At times I knew he couldn’t ignore me. During staff meetings, with resort guests, while he was teaching yoga classes.
And guess what? It worked.
Two days later, my phone rang, and for the first time in weeks, I heard his voice.
