Nor do I have an explanation for why posting his tiny miserable face has become the most anticipated part of my day.
Heath keeps eating.
I scroll through the comments.
Protect him at all costs.
I too require emotional support knitwear.
This hamster understands my tax return anxiety.
I huff a laugh.
Then my thumb drifts.
To Philip’s contact.
Still there.
Still silent.
One week.
No messages from him.
None from me.
Exactly as requested.
I stare at the name.
A thought forms before I can stop it.
Heath’s basically an influencer now.
I could send him the account.
Just so he knows.
Just because it’s Heath.
Harmless.
Practical.
A funny update.
I stare at the screen for another second.
Then let out a slow breath and lock the phone.
No.
That’s not why I wantto send it.
I want to send it because it’s been seven days and I still reach for my phone every time Heath does something stupid.
Because every post feels like a conversation I’m not having.
