Lisa
The house seems cold when I get home. It's dark and lonely and so abnormally quiet that the noise seems misplaced when I turn on the TV. I don't want to watch it; I just want something to fill this empty void that's around me, to give the false impression that there's carefree people nearby or else those with problems worse than my own. I just need something here to assure me that life is still moving forward, that I can't let one bad occurrence pull me under.
Or rather, multiple bad occurrences.
But I don't dwell on this now. It will only dampen my spirits further, and they're already dangerously close to breaking down completely as it is.
I consider calling Rosé. I dial the number in my phone and sit there, imagining her voice and her reactions to my words. She'll want to know everything from the beginning, and I'm not sure I'm ready to relive it again for the second time tonight.
Clad in only my boxers, I sit on my bed for what feels like hours and hours. I stare at my phone, at the contacts and numbers within, and rethink everything I've done and everything that's happened in the last two weeks.
Finally, I turn my phone off and place it on the nightstand. I crawl under the covers, but I don't sleep.
