rick grimes [ @goreillas] ⇆ rosita espinosa .. sometimes, we have to pretend. 💬
for some time now, you had been directed under the naive assumption that masquerading under make-believe was a bygone era. but then it dawned on you suddenly: you were pretending all the time. pretending that leers ricocheted, that jokes were funnier when they weren't at your expense, that you had a place among macho-camaraderie. still just as much that girl as before except more tired no longer adorning slicked-back ponies and combats, trying to assimilate the masculinity that ebbed through the barracks and forcing your fit into the microcosm that you knew as well as they did you did not belong inside. but isn't that just it? you were tired of pretending, faking smiles at your own humiliation as the person you had spent two years supporting searched for that same support elsewhere. fine, and then not; a sudden fancy taking him from your arms to the next, and you were, once again, humiliated. heartbroken from a lost love you did not entirely feel but needed to feel human amongst the rot; you weren't sure you ever truly loved him, but you'd found peace in that codependence, standing by for whatever need required filling, but now you realise your cup is, and had always been, close to empty. he felt no allegiance to you, taking with him both intimacy and friendship, no thought spared for feeling and cohabitation. the awkwardness bubbles between you in bystander's notice, one rick knew before your own admission. abraham was simply gone, finding permanent refuge down the road. not with anyone, but his mind was, and that was enough. you wonder what could be so wrong with you to send someone like him away, you hadn't discovered any standards you were not yet able to meet. were you boring? nagging? shrill? you had consistently strived to not be those things. you convince yourself he is simply undeserving, and in it bares truth. you had sought him for comfort, and the audacity then to break away felt undermined; it should have been you. ‘yeah? well, maybe i'm tired of pretending.’ sick of it, in fact. your arms sit beneath your chest, fingertips threading between your ribs like a hand to hold, hugging yourself close because the autumn evenings have a particular bite to them this year. the porch is bathed in gold all around you but you have no desire to yet admire it. you try not to let the man see you sigh, passive gaze turned towards the faultless street, restored to something even nicer than it had been before all this. something plucked from a dream, and you felt it more eerie than ever.