Page 77 of Every November

But that doesn’t mean I need to worry, he’s probably in the shower or something, I attempt to convince myself again.

Turning to head back to the entrance, I wait until someone exits the building. It’s a guy in a thick black coat with headphones over his ears who doesn’t bother to look at me, so I catch the door before it swings shut and slip inside, feeling like a trespasser. Except I don’t care.

I take the stairs two at a time, and by the time I reach his door, my heart is hammering so loud it’s all I can hear. I knock and wait before knocking again, harder this time.

“Marcus? It’s me. Please open the door.”

I wait a few seconds before putting my ear to the door, but I don’t hear any movement from the inside. I try the handle, but it’s locked, so my fist lands against the door again.

“Marcus, please, can we talk?”

Nothing.

“I know you’re in there, I saw your car, and I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

Still nothing.

“I’m going to sit out here,” I announce through the door, hoping I’m not disturbing his neighbors but also not caring. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

I slide down against the wall next to his door and sit there on the hallway floor. I try his number one more time, but it immediately goes to voicemail, same as always since he keeps his phone permanently on Do Not Disturb.

Could he not be home? It’s so quiet in there. Maybe he’s out with friends and he took a rideshare? That could be a possibility.

Me:

I’m at your apartment. Are you here? I’m sitting outside your door.

It shows it was delivered, but like usual, there are no dots typing back. I stare at the screen until it dims, then tap it awake again. And again.

After a couple minutes of nothing, I let out a shaky breath because I don’t know what’s going on and I’m trying not to let my mind spiral into the worst case scenario.

I think back to the days of silence after Thanksgiving, when he said he just needed time to recover. The hourglass tattoo that he got as a reminder that this is it, that he doesn’t get another life. The way he said no one warned him how much being an adult wears you down.

Is… is he depressed?

Is that why he isn’t answering?

I’ve been falling for him for years, and I don’t know how he actually copes when things get bad with his family. I was so scared to push him, but what if he’s not okay? Not sad not okay.

The other kind.

Would he… hurt himself?

I hate that the thought even crosses my mind, but sitting on the floor with nothing but silence on the other side of his locked door forces it to surface. I don’t know if it’s a real fear or my own anxiety panicking about being in this situation. I’ve never noticed any scars on his body that’d indicate self-harm, but still, I don’t understand why he’s not responding or opening the door.

My hands shake as I pull up my browser and type how to request a wellness check Chicago, and my thumb hovers over the number.

If I call and he’s fine, he might never forgive me. There’d be police at his door, his neighbors watching, all because I couldn’t handle being ignored. But if I don’t call, and he isn’t fine⁠—

I can’t finish the thought.

There’s so much uncertainty right now and the not-knowing is its own kind of torture. But calling the police on him an hour after I showed up uninvited feels rash. He could be asleep, or out. I’m just getting ahead of myself since he didn’t answer the door immediately on a Saturday night.

Fuck, I don't know what to do. So I just stay leaning against the wall, hoping he'll eventually open the door.

Then the door across the hall opens, and a woman steps out with a trash bag, giving me a curious look.

“You okay, hon?” She asks hesitantly.