Page 104 of How To Not Need You

Not continuously, obviously. I have gotten up for essential activities. Peeing. Coffee. Accepting the pizza Harper had delivered because apparently telling your friends you’re fine does not prevent them from sending comfort food to your house.

Beyond that, I have achieved very little.

My curtains are still drawn even though daylight keeps trying to sneak around the edges. The apartment is covered in a strange grey half-light that makes it impossible to tell whether it’s morning or afternoon without checking the clock, and I stopped doing that sometime yesterday.

Time currently has very little relevance to me.

The throw blanket I bought from that cute market that Harper dragged me to last year is twisted around my legs. An empty pizza box sits open on the coffee table beside a mug containing maybe three mouthfuls of cold coffee. There’s a dried spot of tomato sauce on the front of my T-shirt that I noticed an hour ago and have since made the executive decision to ignore.

My hair is disgusting.

Not could probably use a wash disgusting.

Actually disgusting.

I can feel it sticking to the back of my neck, and every time I move my head I’m reminded that shampoo exists and I am actively choosing not to use it.

Excellent.

Really thriving over here.

I pull the blanket higher and sink farther into the couch.

This is familiar.

Not the apartment. Not the pizza box or the cold coffee or the fact that I’m fairly sure Hades would judge my current hygiene standards, which is saying something considering I once watched him lick his own arse for nine consecutive minutes.

This feeling. This I know.

The part where the rest of the world keeps moving while you quietly remove yourself from it.

I’ve done this before. Ok. If I am honest with myself, never with this level of pain but that’s besides the point!

Usually I’m better at it.

Usually there’s anger. Anger is useful. Anger gets you out of bed. Anger deletes phone numbers and throws clothes into boxes and turns heartbreak into something tangible and efficient.

This time, there’s no anger.

Not really, just sadness and an overwhelming amount of hurt.

My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter exactly where I abandoned it two days ago. That same half-finished branding project fills the screen, the client’s request still sitting at the top of my notes.

Warm but professional.

I spent twenty minutes on it deciding whether one particular shade of beige was warm enough the day before my relationship combusted.

That woman that worked on it feels like a stranger.

My phone buzzes against the cushion beside my thigh. Every muscle in my body locks up in response. I don’t look at it. Problem solved. Except it buzzes again.

“Fuck off.”

The phone, demonstrating a complete lack of respect for boundaries, continues with it’s monotonous buzzing. I know it could be Harper. Or Elsie. Or Luca. It could be the group chat, which has been operating at a level of activity normally reserved for natural disasters since I sent that one pathetic word from the side of the road.

Help.

I still can’t quite believe I did that.