Page 13 of Anything But Lonely

Not my problem.

There’s a strange comfort in how little anything asks of me when I don’t respond to it.

The world keeps its distance if I do. It doesn’t punish the absence immediately. That delay feels almost like mercy, even though I know it won’t stay delayed forever.

I could probably try harder. Do something small just to get out of bed, but when I sit with the thought for more than a few seconds, I realize that it truly feels like I’m stuck. Like I’m tied to the bed.

So I stay here, in the in-between, where nothing hurts sharply enough to force movement.

Just the low hum of existing without participation.

The moment my phone stops buzzing, it starts again.

Someone’s calling me, and they aren’t going to stop until I answer.

And there’s only one person who is stubborn enough to do that. More stubborn than me.

I sweep my hand over the bed, one arm wandering blindly across the mattress, refusing to move more than I have to. There’s a soreness to my bones, like when you sit still for too long, and it’s almost like your limbs forgot how to move.

My phone keeps buzzing as I half-heartedly pat through the rumpled sheets until I finally feel something hard, grabbing it and bringing it to my face. The light is blinding, my eyes squinting at the light as I see Ava’s contact name and picture fade, only for them to pop back up moments later with her calling again.

My forearm falls over my face as my phone continues to buzz in my hand, and I let out a groan that hurts my throat, the sound deafening in the quiet room.

If I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling.

Or worse, come over here and find me.

Which is the last thing she needs to do while still recovering from her C-section earlier this month.

“Hello?” My voice cracks.

“About goddamn time,” Ava greets, and I huff out a breath, the closest thing I have to laughter at the moment.

My mom used to be as stubborn as Ava—calling me or Jack until we answered, no matter the day or time. It used to freak us out, worrying us that something was wrong, but she always explained that she did it because she was the one who was worried. Her mind would catastrophize the craziest scenarios as to why we weren’t answering—from being abducted by aliens to dropping our phone in the toilet and getting our hands stuck when trying to grab it.

As if anyone would use two hands.

The thought is sobering in a way that makes me wish I was drunk. Drunk enough to forget all the little anecdotes and memories—they cut through the numbness too easily.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as possible—as if I missed all of her calls because I was busy answering emails or working on one of the dozen character illustrations or book cover commissions in my inbox right now.

“Just checking in,” she says sweetly, like we both don’t know why she’s calling.

“All good here,” I announce, dropping my forearm onto my bed, opening my eyes to try and adjust to the darkness.

“Rumi mentioned you’re taking some time off work?” she says, posing it as a question even though she obviously knows the answer.

“Yep,” I reply.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither do I. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it’s loaded. Because we both know we can’t pretend this is just a normal phone call for too long.

“How are you holding up?” she asks, her voice softening. “I wish we could’ve been at the funeral on Friday.” She says the last part a little quieter, and I can hear movement on her end and a muffled whisper—probably her husband, Anderson, grabbing the baby from her.

“I’m fine,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even enough that I believe the words too.

“I’m sure you are,” Ava says in that motherly way she does.

Our friendship has always been interesting—she’s an eldest daughter while I’m a youngest, both of us having to take on caretaking roles early in life.