Tired Bones and Little Sparks
I woke up tired, as usual, and tried so hard not to text Will first. I sat with the waiting, hoping he would reach out, but the silence wore me down until I finally sent, “Hope you slept well.” He replied quickly — said he had, asked if I had. I answered honestly at first, “no,” but immediately felt the distance in his tone. So I backpedaled to “I slept fine,” and the conversation shrank. More one‑word responses, more “hug.” Somehow that single word can feel like a lifeline and a hollow all at once.
I finished Dead Like Me today. Afterward, I deleted my Prime profile and logged out of the account entirely. It felt good, at first — like I was stepping away on my own terms. But then I realized even that little “Me” profile sitting quietly on his screen meant I hadn’t disappeared completely. Erasing it left me feeling shut out, invisible, and the bittersweetness hit me all over again.
I took myself on a headphone walk. A mile and a half, music carrying pieces of my grief through the falling light. I didn’t make it to the end of my playlist before the dark came, but moving my body, letting the songs hold me, felt like something.
Coming home, I saw it: Will had texted “goodnight, sleep well” first. For the first time in days. A flicker of tenderness I’d pined for, but the timing cut sharp — twelve minutes too late, after he’d already logged off Discord. Too late to turn it into the nightly ritual I miss so much. And instead of comfort, it deepened the hollow. Another night without his voice.
Now it’s almost midnight. My hip aches, my back aches, and I’m nearly out of anxiety meds. The refill is pending at the pharmacy, but not knowing when it’ll come adds another layer of unease.
And yet — a glimmer. Someone read last night’s blog and liked it. Someone saw me. Just a small light across the dark, but real enough to remind me my words reached another heart.
Tonight, I am tired. I am hurting. But I am still here.
