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“Don’t die because you want them to. Yes, yes, you’ve said that before.” She’s quoting me back to myself because she’s heard it enough times to have it memorized. “No one is asking you to become a different person overnight, Marcus. I’m asking you to notice the gap between what you say you want and what you actually let yourself have. You just told me you miss him. Have you told him that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too vulnerable. Once he knows I miss him, he knows exactly how much power he has over how I feel. That's a lot to give someone I see once a year.”
“Is it power? Do you think he’d use it against you?”
No. But instead, I don’t answer.
“Here’s what I notice,” she continues, not waiting for me to catch up. “You’re worried about putting too much on him. But you haven’t actually asked him if it’s too much. You’ve decided that on his behalf, the same way you’ve decided you’re a burden on everyone else’s behalf without much evidence either way.”
“So, I should just tell him I miss him?”
“That’s up to you. But the next time you catch yourself wanting to open up and stopping, ask yourself how he can truly be with you if you don’t open up and show him who you are.”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, knowing she’s right. As usual.
“Well, think about it, okay? We’re out of time today.” She glances off-screen at the clock. “Same time in two weeks?”
“Yeah. Same time.”
“Bye, Marcus.”
The screen goes dark, and I sit here for a long time afterward in the quiet of my apartment, processing everything we discussed.
I think about Evan saying “Fuck your parents” as if he were angry on my behalf. I think about him washing my hair, asking for a happy memory, and telling me he wants to get to know me.
I recognize that Dr. Patel is right, and I’ve spent a lot longer building the case against myself than anyone’s ever spent building one for me.
Maybe I am lovable. Maybe I really will be enough for the right person. Maybe I should tell Evan I miss him. When I reach for my phone, I notice a text from him waiting for my reply.
Evan:
It’s been raining sideways for three days straight. Miss actual seasons a little, especially this time of year.
It’s just small talk, but it’s a segue. I could tell him I miss him.
I miss you, I type back, staring at the words before deleting it. It feels too random; instead I reply to his text.
Me:
At least you don’t have to shovel rain
Fuck, I’m such a coward, but like Dr. P said, no one is asking me to become a different person overnight.
Evan:
Fair point. Chicago winter still sounds worse though.
Me:
That’s because it is.
As soon as I hit send, my mind reels back to the conversation where Evan asked me if I’d ever thought about leaving Chicago.
I said I didn’t know where else I’d go, but that was a lie.
