• Rose In The Dark • (GxG)

Chapter Thirty-Six

~ One Week Later ~

Milan

I don't like this feeling.

At all.

I don't like the distance between us. The shortened conversations, and glances that didn't linger. I hate that she's mad at me, and that time is the only passage to forgiveness.

It's killing me, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Able to move around with my own two legs now, pain medicine aiding me, I busied around my closet. Organizing helped me think, but it also helped me distract myself from losing my mind in this house.

Today was Noah's first day back at work, though she was only going for a few hours to ease herself back into routine.

This morning, I made her breakfast. And she thanked me, but that was it. She talks to me, but not the way she did before. It's always about how I'm recovering or if I've eaten or if I'm in any pain. She doesn't look at me the way she did before. Only with inspection upon my healing body, and hardly into my eyes, where I needed her gaze the most. And it's eating at me, worse and worse everyday.

The days have blurred, if I'm being honest. With one turning into two and two into five, it feels like we only see each other in passing, despite living in the same condo.

I don't necessarily walk on eggshells around her, because she hasn't been terribly cold or mean to me. But also, in a way, I have.

Because I know why.

I know that she cares too much about my well being to ignore me. I know that she still blames herself for the accident. And I know that beneath her frustration with me, she worries for me anyway.

That I'll go back to old habits and that I'll let my anxieties take control.

It's not because she wants to interact with me. Not really.

Therapy has been virtual lately, having been every other day since last week.

Today's session made me cry, which I seemed to be doing a lot of these days, but I was told it was healthy. To release, and let go, instead of holding on and carrying weight.

I didn't like that feeling, either.

Starting over, as if I was too incompetent to get it right the first time. As if I needed to learn the same lesson twice. Like a fool.

I hated feeling like a stitch, making it all the way to the end, to completion, just before unraveling. Before coming undone, and thus becoming a disappointment. A failure.

I should've gotten it right the first time...

Attempting to master the art of doing everything one-handed, I dressed myself after tidying our bedroom for the second time today, even though Noah had already done so this morning.

I was just sick of feeling useless, or like a burden of any sort, and I couldn't wait to get this stupid cast taken off.

Wearing a gray maxi skirt with a stretchy matching shirt, the whole outfit hugging my body comfortably, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. My legs worked perfectly fine now that my back was on its way to fully healing day by day. I had about three hours before the pain would kick back in though, and I would be sent to bed rest the second Noah came home.

Today I curled my hair, skillfully with one hand might I add, just out of boredom and to feel less disabled. To feel somewhat more like myself, or at least start to.