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Olivia: I said “good or bad.” “Okay” doesn’t tell me which.
Me: Good? I guess. I don’t know. Today sucks.
I pause, wondering if I should ask her what I’ve been thinking about since she said it. Might as well. Not like today can get any worse.
Me: You said you would have guessed that I would do something where I could be around football…like what? Why would I do that?
Seems like it takes her forever to respond. If I was like her, I’d start sending text after text until she answers, but I’m not. Besides, I can’t decide if I want an answer or not. I shouldn’t have asked. Do I really want to know? Does it matter? My leg is having a panic attack, judging by all the bouncing up and down it’s doing. I still want nothing to do with it, not sure how I could even have a football in my apartment, much less be around people who can play. Plus, Olivia might get all happy because she will think I’m talking or opening up or moving on with life.
That’s not what I’m doing. Only figuring out what she meant and what she thinks. She’s probably trying to use her see-into-your-soul-shit method on my text. Hopefully, it’s not working, since she can’t see me.
God, is she going to respond or what? My phone vibrates.
Olivia: idk. You love the game, right? Wouldn’t you want to still experience what you can? You could be a coach or something in sports medicine, or ref, or agent, anything in the field. Options are limitless. Coach would be good because you’re pissy and moody all the time anyway haha! Or ref because then people would have to listen to you and the calls you make and you wouldn’t care if they didn’t like it.
Me: You think you’re funny with the coach line, don’t you?
No need to tell her it made me smile.
Olivia: That was hilarious and you know it.
Me: I didn’t laugh.
Olivia: No? Did you at least smile?
Me: Maybe.
Olivia: :D Good enough for me! So…I’ve been thinking.
Oh, God. What insane shit is she going to talk me into now? Pilates? Is that what it’s called? I almost don’t even want to ask, but I do.
Me: About what?
Olivia: We should go out and have fun…instead of being in my apartment all the time.
Me: Go out? Are you asking me on a date?
Olivia: No. I’m old fashioned. If you want to go out on a date with me, then you’re going to have to ask. I meant as friends. And yes, go out. Like outside into the fresh air. Into society where you can roam free instead of being trapped in an apartment. What do you think?
Trapped in my apartment? See, there’s that weird crap she does. I like being trapped and I hate it. The weird part comes in because somehow she knows this already. And I guess if at some point in the future, I want to go on a date with Olivia, I’m going to have to ask her. It shouldn’t worry me or freak me out, but it does a little bit. Only because it makes things a little harder for me. Does she deserve that? Absolutely. Will it give me a panic attack if I ask? Most definitely. Would I want to ask her anyway?
Maybe.
If I knew for sure she wouldn’t turn me down. She’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but in her own way, she understands me more than anyone and there’s not a chance in hell I would risk losing that.
Olivia: Well??
Me: Sunday?
Olivia: Works for me. :)
Let’s just hope I have more energy to hang out with her then. Maybe the medication will be a miracle worker and work fast. He said I would be able to tell a difference anywhere from three to four days to two weeks, depending on how my body responds to it. I’m hoping for a fast response.
THERE ARE FIFTY
little cracks in my ceiling over the couch in the living room. Who knows how many more there are in the rest of the room. I’m crying, but I don’t think it’s over a crack-filled ceiling. Tears have been steadily falling down my face for like a million hours. Or maybe only a few. I’m not sure. I’m supposed to go somewhere with Olivia today, but I can’t take my eyes off the ceiling. We’ve texted some and I’ve sent one-to-two-word responses. She’s funny sometimes, but my lips don’t move in a smile.
Why am I crying?
