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Ten minutes pass, then twenty, and I keep tapping my screen, just hoping to see dots. I beg whoever is listening to let this be the one text he answers.

Then I finally see the dots before a message fills my screen.

Marcus:

I’m safe and I’m not going to hurt myself.

Promise.

It’s not much. There’s absolutely no context about what’s going on in there or why he won’t answer, but I exhale. I feel immense relief that he’s at least okay enough to respond and that relief is also met with the devastating fact that he’s in there, and he still won’t let me in.

Without making this about me right now, I focus on texting him back.

Me:

Thank you for telling me. Please, take care of yourself, Marcus. I will go home today, but when you’re ready to talk, at any time of the day or night, please let me know. I’ll get on the next plane back to you. I don’t know what’s going on but I care about you deeply, and I want to be here for you.

And if it ever gets really bad, please call or text 988. Please, for me.

I stare at my phone, willing him to text me back. Or even better, open the door.

Marcus:

Ok

The words don’t lessen the hurt, but I have to accept it.

I wait until the last possible minute then press my palm flat against the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better by you.”

Then I force myself to walk away from the door I’ve spent the last couple of days willing to open and knock on the neighbor’s door. The woman from Saturday answers.

“Hi. I’m heading back to Seattle and I know this is a lot to ask, but would you mind just keeping an eye on Marcus? Just checking every so often that he’s okay? I’ll leave you my number. I know it’s not really your responsibility, but I don’t have anyone else here I can ask.”

“Is this about the police yesterday?” she checks.

“Yeah, he’s just having a hard time right now. Or I think. Maybe he’s just over me. I don’t know.”

Her expression is a little sad. “Of course, hon. I’ll knock on his door every couple days if I don’t see him leave.”

“Thank you. Really.” My voice cracks, exhaustion and heartbreak and gratitude tangled together. I rattle off my number and she texts me while I stand there, so I have her number too.

“No problem. I’m Diane, by the way,” she introduces herself.

“Evan.”

She nods and we say our goodbyes, and instead of walking right out of the building, I walk a few steps back to his door, and press my palm against it, speaking to him through the wood one final time. “I’ll be here, Marcus. Whenever you’re ready.”

Then I turn, head down the stairs, and climb into the rideshare. The driver asks if I had a good trip and I say yes, because it’s easier than explaining my last three days.

At the airport, a couple is saying goodbye, holding each other and I have to look away. It’s too much for me right now. I hold it together until somewhere over the Rocky Mountains before I just break.

The tears sneak up on me, and they aren’t stopping as I use my sleeve to attempt to dry my eyes. The woman in the seat next to me pretends not to notice, and I’ve never been more grateful to a stranger.

I thought if I just showed up, he’d let me in and we could talk. Sort this all out together. That he’d let me be there for him, but I was wrong. I don’t know what to do when someone I love is suffering and won’t let me help, because that’s what this is, right? Love. I wouldn’t spend days just sitting outside of anyone’s apartment begging for them to let me in.

When I get home, his hoodie is still draped over the back of my desk chair where I left it, and I can’t look at it. My heart hurts so badly, I don’t bother unpacking or doing anything. I feel like a shell of a person.

Instead of letting myself stay buried under it, I throw myself into work. I open my laptop and log into my work email, even though I took the day off.