Natasha
NatashaAnxiety takes hold during the night, and I can barely focus in the morning.
I don’t know what it’s about—not the meeting with Alex, who texted back and named a nearby cafe for this afternoon.
It’s more like a pressure building inside me. The sense of something being very wrong. It’s separation anxiety. Like I made the wrong choice leaving Dima, and I need to fix it. Except I have no intention of doing that.
I’m a glutton for abuse, but I’ve taken enough. I have to muster some sense of pride and not look back.
I can’t get any food down for breakfast. I go to the gym to try to work off some of the energy, but it doesn’t help.
When I get back, I go through the neat stack of mail on the breakfast bar. Someone has taken good care of things while I was gone. The kitty litter
