He taps his foot against the carpeted floor of his therapist's office, wondering if he should say it. If he should even say her name out loud. He hasn't done that in at least a year. He'd never say it; especially not in front of his friends.
As the therapist, a middle-aged woman in a grey pantsuit, takes notes on his progress, he clears his throat and decides to speak, "She's coming back from California. Today."
She looks up, "Who?"
It takes him a while. He has to work up the nerve to say it.
"Maddie," he says, picking at his nails. He only mentioned her name once, in his first session last year, but the therapist nods. She was the only good thing he's ever mentioned. "Something bad happened, I think."
Cover art by Brigid Vaughn (burdge on deviant art)
#freementalillness
Voicemail, yet again.
Taking a deep breath, I start the message.
"Hey, I've called you again. This is the last one, I swear. Remember when we would chat forever and ever? We would always drink hot coffee together and talk about our pointless day. It was a daily thing, until you found someone else to occupy your time. I wasn't needed anymore, so you cast me out. I'm in our place, same spot. When you decide to meet me again, I'll be here. I won't talk to you. All that I will spare you is a small glance and some cold coffee."
Ending the voicemail, I collapse back into the chair and wait for the response that will never come.
cover by @xHemmingsHugsx