I packed up my things at the coffee shop, rationing breaths. Used words sparingly. I’d reached the edge.
Kissed Mason and threw an, “I love you,” over my shoulder as I charged down the steps. Picked up momentum as I headed across the street, back toward our apartment. Counted cracks in the sidewalk, steps. Watched my feet dodge in and out of my line of vision. Held my breath. Clamored through the front door, made it to the elevator, lost it.
An hour later he opened the door and found me still laying on the floor. Catatonic. Dropped his bag and draped himself over me. I immediately started sobbing again.
That’s the world we’ve been living in.
As a writer, I felt I should be able to find words for it. The hot anger, the senseless desperation, the hopelessness. The ever-resurfacing frustration with the person I seem to be. Instead, I looked across the bathroom floor at my wonderful husband, eyes big and mascara-stained. I said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Each word crashed in the space between us and I collapsed on top of them. Curled into his chest, clawed for air, for stability. He tilted my head up toward his, eyebrows bearing down and voice tight around the edges, “You can. You’re okay. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
All folded in on myself and rendered immobile, I clung onto his t-shirt. Slowed my breathing.
I don’t know how to believe him.
But his arms pinned mine to my sides and he rocked me. And I knew he believed himself. And that’s enough for now.