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We talk about the garden.

The cooking class.

The neighbor.

Normal things.

He asks about Cassian once.

Just once.

“We’re figuring it out,” I say.

He doesn’t push.

But I hear what he doesn’t say.

I’ve always been able to hear what the people I love don’t say.

It’s a gift.

It’s a curse.

Mostly it’s exhausting.

• • •

Cassian and I talk maybe once a week now.

Sometimes less.

When we do it’s — fine.

That’s the word.

Fine.

Not warm the way it was.

Not the FaceTime at midnight and the rare smile and hi / hi.

Just — fine.

Like we’re two people who used to know each other very well and are carefully maintaining the outline of that.

I hate fine.

I have always hated fine.

But I take it.

I take whatever he gives me.

I have always taken whatever he gives me.

• • •

February bleeds into March.