Page 85 of Every November

I don’t know that. I don’t know anything anymore.

“And Evan…” Josh continues. “If he cares about you—and I think he does—he’s not going to run because you’re struggling. He’s going to want to be there for you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you, dude. But I know you’re pushing him away, and I know that’s not going to make you feel better. Exhibit A: how you’re feeling right now.”

My eyes burn. “At least this way I don’t have to deal with him rejecting me.”

“Just fucking talk to him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what to say.”

“Start with the truth.”

The truth? The truth is I’m not okay. I haven’t been since Christmas Eve. And the one person I want to tell is the one I can’t bring myself to face.

“Are you still taking your meds?”

“I have to go,” I say quietly because I can’t say that I missed a therapy appointment, then another, and never bothered to reschedule because facing Dr. Patel felt like one more person I’d have to disappoint. I can’t tell him I ran out of my prescription months ago and I didn’t refill it because calling to refill it felt like too much work. It was easier to just let the bottles sit empty on the bathroom counter than admit that. I don’t know how to explain that kind of tiredness to someone who’s never felt it. The kind where taking care of yourself becomes its own impossible task, where the thing you need to feel functional is the exact thing you don’t have enough of.

It’s the same with Evan. He’s the thing I need most, and reaching for him takes the energy I don’t have.

“Marcus—”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Please call Dr. Pa⁠—”

I hang up and set the phone on the nightstand, and the silence rushes back in immediately. It’s heavy and suffocating, and I want it to go away.

I contemplate doing what I think about every day: picking up my phone and texting Evan. I imagine myself saying something like:

I’m not doing okay.

I’m thinking about you and I haven’t reached out because I’m broken and I don’t know how to be the person you deserve.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

But I never send anything because what comes after that? What happens when he asks why I’ve been distant? What happens when I have to explain that I’ve been lying in bed for months, barely functioning?

I squeeze my eyes closed and my thoughts spiral the way they always do.

He’s moved on. He’s with someone else. He’s forgotten about you. You’re not worth remembering. You’re not worth the effort. You’re broken. You’re too much. You’re not enough. No one loves you.

I pull the blanket over my head and try to breathe through the weight pressing down on my chest. Thinking about Evan used to be my favorite place to escape, but now even that just leads back here.

Alone in the dark, missing him so much I can’t do anything.

Not even reach out.