I don’t open the message when it comes in.
I see his name light up my screen and I flip my phone face down like it burned me. Like if I don’t look, it didn’t happen. I tell myself I’ll read it later. When I’m calmer. When I’m stronger. When my chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.
I’m not calm. I’m not strong. I still don’t read it.
The day drags. Everything feels loud. People talk to me and I nod and smile and answer at the right moments, but I’m not there. I’m thinking about the way his name looked. The way it still looks like home even after everything.
By the time I get home, my feet hurt and my head aches and I’m tired in that deep, emotional way sleep never fixes.
I sit on the edge of my bed. Shoes still on. Bag slipping off my shoulder.
Then I open it.
“I’ve been thinking a
