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“You could never. Neil. I am so, so sorry.” My mind tries to work out of the puzzle of I never have any energy and I’m sleeping too much and I should be having the time of my life. Maybe we can fix this together. I’m no expert, and fatigue could be linked to any number of different things, but based on everything he’s said— “It sounds like… Could these maybe be symptoms of depression?”
The word comes out quiet, a timid little thing, and yet it slams down between us like it’s made of concrete.
Depression.
Neil.
They don’t seem like they should go together.
“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I hadn’t considered it, but now that you’re saying it… maybe it doesn’t sound completely off base.”
“You saw someone before, right? A therapist?” I ask, and he nods.
“Years ago,” he says. “But I don’t even know what I’d say now. I’d be so self-conscious of them asking, what do you have to be depressed about? Because I’m so lucky to be here. I want to be here, but my brain has other ideas, I guess. And then I think about how my dad used to act the same way when I was little and I just fucking spiral.”
It wasn’t that I thought he’d moved on from his dad—if it’s something anyone can move on from—but until now, maybe I didn’t fully understand the scope of it. That of course he’d still be grieving.
Any advice I give is merely a guess as to what might help him when the reality is that I have no fucking clue. All the books I’ve read and the love for language we’ve shared, and I still don’t know the right thing to say. How to support him through this.
I have never felt so out of my depth.
“Neil,” I say with all the gentleness I can muster. My thumb rubs circles on his hand, his wrist, up his arm. None of it feels like enough. None of it can soothe how deeply he’s hurting. “It’s not fair that you have to go through this—I hate that you do.”
“I don’t want to seem like I need constant reassurance from you.” These words come out in a whisper. “I thought I could look weak in front of you and it wouldn’t matter, but—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “I don’t want to be this burden. This depressed boyfriend in another state that you have to worry about all the time.”
“You need to stop saying that word.” Now there’s more force in my voice because he shouldn’t get to decide how I feel about it. “You couldn’t be further from a burden. I love you, and I want to help however I can. Whatever you decide, you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here.”
“But most of the time, you’re not,” he says flatly, and I wish he weren’t right. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. I just miss you so fucking much, it’s like—it’s like all I want is a really good book, but I’ve lost the ability to read. And sometimes I can’t help wondering if we can really keep doing this for three and a half more years without losing our minds.”
I’m struck speechless. My body suddenly feels limp, as though the bed is not enough to hold me up. I wait for him to take this back. To say he didn’t really mean it.
But haven’t I wondered the same thing? Even if I’ve pushed it down, the anxiety has still been there, waiting for its chance to pierce the surface.
I want to rewind thirty minutes, to when his mouth was on my shoulder and my hands were in his hair. When we were still naive. His posture is all wrong, shoulders bent at a defeated angle, neither of us having reached for one of the eight pillows that could have padded this conversation.
Because maybe we were always hurtling toward this conclusion, and we were stupid to think we’d be the couple to last.
Maybe he’s the only one brave enough to say it.
“I’m just trying to be rational about it,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “I don’t want to rely on you for my happiness. That’s too much pressure to put on you.” He swallows hard. “I’m sure there are plenty of great guys in Boston.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you’d be happier with one of them.”
“Neil.” I look him firmly in the eye, the room staring to blur at the edges. My pulse is threatening to leap right out of my skin, and I think I might actually pass out. “I’ve never seen you like this. You’re scaring me.”
He shoves his fists into his eyes and jumps to his feet. “I’m not trying to, I swear! It’s fucked up that we’re even having this conversation when we care about each other so much—I get that. But there’s a pile of bricks on my chest all the fucking time, Rowan. All. The. Time. And even picking up the phone to make an appointment for some number of sessions that don’t guarantee anything, even if the logical part of me knows all the benefits of therapy and medication, which I’m not even sure I can afford—every day, those bricks get heavier and heavier.” Tears are streaming down his face now, so it shocks me when he says, “Please don’t cry.”
When I put a hand to my cheek, my fingertips come away wet. He’s striding back toward the bed, reaching for my face. Thumbing away the tears with gentle, determined movements.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks again, still cradling my jaw. “I love you too much to put you through this. I can’t let myself prevent you from having the college experience you deserve.”
“What if you are my college experience?”
Somehow it feels like there’s more distance between us right now than it does when I’m in Boston.
Maybe it’s not about how much we love each other. Maybe it’s about logistics and the specific pain of not getting to spend all the time you want with the person that you love.
