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Pick it up.

I’m not going to text him.

I’m not going to be that person.

I’m not going to text him.

I text him.

Saw your photo. Looks fun. Miss you.

He reads it.

Doesn’t respond.

I take another pill.

Eventually the ceiling stops being so loud.

• • •

He calls the next afternoon like nothing happened. His voice filling the room the way it always does.

And I answer.

Of course I answer.

He sounds like himself and I let it carry me and we talk for an hour and when we hang up I feel okay.

Better than okay.

I feel like I made it bigger than it was.

I feel like an idiot for the texts.

For the photo.

For the ceiling at 2am.

I’m fine.

We’re fine.

• • •

December.

I go home.

And he’s there.

He’s so there.

Like the last three months didn’t happen.

Like he pulled himself all the way back just to show me — see, I’m here, I’m always here, stop worrying —

And I believe it.