Page 126 of Impulse Control
So did my schedule.
Me:
I really don’t know. It’s so packed here right now, they don’t break for t-day.
The lack of swift response had me nibbling on my thumbnail. I tried to cobble together a better explanation. The most challenging part was that I wanted to see him, but carving outthatmuch time was notpossibleat the moment.
Not with the new assignments and the increase in my workload. I’d been busy before, but I was buried alive at the moment. I couldn’t risk letting even one thing slip. He didn’t respond the rest of the night or the next day.
It was earlier there, he could be in a meeting or in the car or a thousand other things. If I was remembering correctly, he’d mentioned a case he had to prep for the prior week. So I did my best to ignore the icy sensation creeping up my spine.
David was at the door to the building, carrying a couple of bags of groceries that next evening when I dragged myself home. Tired draped me like a heavy coat that threatened to suffocate me. I pushed to get there first so I could open the door for him since his hands were full.
“Hey,” he said as I unlocked the door and then nudged it inward. He waited while I wiped off my boots before he followed me inside. “You always look like you’re just dropping in on your way from one place to another.”
I smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.” The smell of savory soup and fresh bread was so strong, my stomach lurched.
He frowned, not unkindly as I closed the door behind us and waited for the bolt to slide in. “You know, you never look like you’re even enjoying it anymore.”
The words sliced through me far more brutally than the nameless girl’s ever could have.
Than Dominic’s.
Than anything Mischa had said.
I opened my mouth to argue.
Then closed it.
Because I had no idea whatenjoyingit even felt like anymore. And that should probably terrify me more than being tired ever had.
I went upstairs, kicked off my shoes, and stood in my kitchen for a long time without turning on the light.
Then my phone buzzed.
Then my calendar did.
Then the moment passed.
I lay awake longer than I meant to, replaying David’s voice in my head.You never look like you’re enjoying it anymore.
The next morning, I sat across from Mischa with my portfolio in my hands and no idea what I actually wanted her to see.
She dismantled my first project images one by one.
Not cruelly.
Methodically.
“These are competent,” she said. “Which is not the same as being honest.”
I stood there with my hands in my pockets, nodding like a professional. Inside, something collapsed quietly. Not like a crash — more like a negative being overexposed until the image simply faded out.
Mischa studied me for a moment, as if checking whether I understood the difference. Whether I felt it.
“You are not failing, Rachel,” she added. “You are disappearing.”
The word echoed.
