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I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Everything okay?

M

P.S. 21 days until I’m home.

His response hits somewhere deep in my chest, a place more tender than I care to admit.

So, I keep my distance by keeping my reply short.

June 2 — 22 Weeks 2 Days, Papaya

I’m fine.

Elsie

Within minutes, another email comes through, making my heart plummet.

June 2 — 22 Weeks 2 Days, Papaya

No, even I’m not naive enough to fall for that. I have five sisters.

If you’re saying you’re fine, then everything is definitely not fine.

Gunnar says Selene told him about something that happened on Friday? At your brunch with the girls?

Elsie, what happened? Are you okay?

M

Too worked up to give him any kind of meaningful response, I turn my phone off and go back to bed.

Days pass, and I know Marshall hasn’t given up his mission to check on me, as people have now started showing up at my doorstep.

First, he sent Oliver, who camped out in the lobby for over six hours before I finally let him come up to see me. But only because he left and came back with my favorite takeout.

Then Selene and Gunnar came by. After my last experience with having Gunnar show up at my door via the elevator shaft, I let them in immediately. Which then meant I proceeded to push them out of my home as quickly as I possibly could. It was a feat unto itself with how overbearing they were the whole time.

Today, when the front desk calls up, it’s Zuri who’s downstairs.

Too exhausted to do anything other than cave, I drag myself out of bed and to the front door to let her in.

Before I even get the chance to open the door fully, Zuri is already pushing into my entryway.

“You’ve us all scared shitless, Elsie,” Zuri says sternly. “What the hell are you doing, woman?”

“Marshall sent you,” I conclude.

“No shit he sent me, he’s worried! We all are!” She continues her desperation to get through to me, making her voice climb with each sentence. “You’ve gone completely MIA, Elsie. This isn’t how you treat people.”

“I know,” I mumble.

“Then do something about it.” She says emphatically. “Talk to him. Us. A therapist. Talk to fucking anyone.”

“I can’t,” I say listlessly as I shuffle over to plop myself on the couch. “I just. I can’t.”

“Girl. You have to do something.” She insists.

“I know.” I sigh.

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