Page 96 of Every November

I sit across from him in the office chair and don’t know where to start, so I start with an apology.

“I’m sorry, Evan. I know that’s not enough. I know nearly a year of silence doesn’t get fixed by two words, but I need you to hear them first, because I’m sorry, Evan. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Why?” His voice cracks on the single syllable, and something in his composure snaps entirely. “Why couldn’t you just tell me something? Anything? I sat outside your door for three days, Marcus. Three days. I begged. I told a total stranger in your hallway I was worried about you and she’s been keeping tabs on you for months for me so I can make sure you’re okay.”

“Evan, I⁠—”

“No, let me say this first.” He stands and starts pacing, dragging his hands through his hair. “You have no idea what those months were like for me. Do you know how scared I was? I sat in a hotel room two blocks from your apartment convincing myself you were still breathing because I had literally no other information to go on. I called the cops for a fucking wellness check. I flew home not knowing if you were okay besides you repeating the words I asked you to tell me in a text. Do you understand how much that destroyed me when your neighbor told me the next day you left your apartment? But you couldn’t walk out the door for me when all I wanted was to be there for you.”

“I know.” My own voice breaks on it. “I know, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. None of it.”

“Then why?” His eyes are a brighter blue than usual with unshed tears, and seeing him hurt, angry, vulnerable, and scared makes me want to crawl out of my skin. “Why didn’t you talk to me? Why didn’t you open the door? Why, Marcus, why?”

“Because I was fucked up!” The words come out with a little bite because I suddenly feel defensive, but I shake my head because he’s not trying to make me feel bad about my choices. He just wants to understand. “I was drowning and missed you so fucking much, and I couldn’t pull myself out of the hole I was in. I know I fucked up by not opening the door. I wanted to, Evan. I wanted to so badly. I heard every word you said. But my body wouldn’t move. I’d tell myself to get up, go to the door, and nothing happened. Then I was suffocating under the shame.”

“Why not?” He takes a step closer, and I can see the hurt written all over his face. “Why couldn’t you just send me one text? One message saying you needed space or you were going through something or literally anything other than complete silence?”

“Because I was depressed, and my depression doesn’t care about what I want. It just took over, and I couldn’t fight my way out of it no matter how much I wanted to.” His eyes soften, the hurt making room for his empathy.

I take a breath, and make myself tell him everything.

“Christmas Eve was one of the best and worst days of my life. The best day with you, I was feeling so high, but after I dropped you off, my mom proved to me how little she cared about me. I told her that I wasn’t going to the Christmas Eve service at church and that I didn’t care about appearances for her sake. I told her I was done pretending to be someone I’m not, I decided enough was enough, and she just let me walk out the door. Being with you gave me that strength and then she didn’t even try to stop me or call after me. My dad didn’t even look up from the TV. And something in me just… broke. I think it hit harder after the couple days I had with you because I was so high, then so low, and I fell into a depression. I could barely get out of bed, but forced myself to, for work. I stopped eating meals and showering some days. Missed therapy sessions for months, stopped taking my medication, let my phone live on Do Not Disturb because I couldn’t stand the thought of you seeing what I’d actually become. Every time I thought about texting you, my brain told me you were better off without me. That I was too broken, too fucked up, too much of a mess for someone like you.”

He stares at me, and I can see him processing this. His hurt doesn’t disappear completely, but something shifts in his expression and I see him softening even more. “You were depressed.”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling exposed in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. This is significantly harder than talking to Dr. Patel because at least I know she’s paid to care about me. Evan doesn’t have to deal with me if he doesn’t want to. He can walk away, but I need to lay it all on the line like I promised myself I would. “I’ve dealt with depression before, but this was different. This was... bad. I couldn’t let you in because I couldn’t admit how bad it was, but I was barely functioning most days. I couldn’t admit how much I missed you, because I didn’t feel like I deserved to miss you after everything I was putting you through. And I couldn’t admit I was falling apart, because I believed falling apart in front of someone is the fastest way to lose them.”

“No. You wouldn’t have lost me. I wish you would’ve told me.” Evan’s voice is quieter now, but there’s still an edge to it. Because while I was hurting, I also deeply hurt him in the process. “You made me feel disregarded, Marcus, when all I wanted was to be there for you.”

“I know I handled it poorly, but how was I supposed to be with you when I couldn’t even take care of myself? How was I supposed to ask you to deal with my shit when I was barely holding it together?”

“Fuck, Marcus,” he curses, and there are tears running down his face now.

“I know.” I feel my own tears starting to fall. “I know I should’ve trusted you. I know I should’ve reached out. But I was so convinced you’d be better off without me. My own family doesn’t want me, Evan. Why would you want to be with me?”

“Because I l—” he stops himself, and I see him physically pull back. “Because we had something. Hell, I thought we were building something, especially after last year. But then you just… vanished. You became a ghost, Marcus. And I kept living with you anyway.”

“I told myself I was protecting you,” I attempt to explain, even though it won’t lessen his pain. “That you deserved better than watching me fall apart, that reaching out would just be handing you a burden you never signed up for. I was terrified that if I let you see how bad it got, you’d realize I wasn’t worth the trouble. So I disappeared instead. I told myself it was for you, but really it was for me. I was protecting myself from finding out you’d leave by making sure I never gave you the real chance to.”

“Marcus.” His voice is thick now, eyes glassy. “I wouldn’t have left. I wanted to help you. I knew something was wrong, but you weren’t talking to me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I know that now. I didn’t know it then. I think some part of me wouldn’t let myself believe it was possible, even after everything you’d already shown me. Josh forced his way into my apartment two months ago and made me get help. I’ve been in therapy twice a week since and back on medication. I’ve been trying, Evan. And I owed you an explanation.”

He takes a deep breath and I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I know whatever it is, I deserve it.

“I’m hurt, I’ve been hurting, but also—” his voice breaks again, and tears are streaming down his cheeks. “I’m also so relieved you’re okay. That you’re getting help and that you finally reached out, even though Josh told me in September, Marcus. September. And I still had to wait for a hotel room number to hear a single word from you. But fuck, all I’ve been wanting this whole year was for you to be okay.”

I don’t move toward him. I don’t think I’ve earned that yet. He wipes his face, breathing unsteady, and looks at me for a long, searching moment.

“I just… I’m heartbroken you went through this alone.”

“Don’t say that like you weren’t also alone. I did that to you too. And I didn’t want to reach out until I knew I was in a better place. If I’d texted you that I was getting better and then crashed again, I’d have hurt you twice.” My voice comes out wrecked at the thought.

Evan shakes his head, like he’s trying to physically reject the comparison, but he doesn’t argue. He goes quiet, looking down at his hands, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough.

“Every single day for months, I kept hoping you’d text me back. I’d wake up and reach for my phone before I even opened my eyes. I kept checking it like a fucking idiot, waiting for messages that never came.” He angrily wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.”