I never used to feel tired in my bones. Not like this. When I was younger, I thought I could carry everything—anger, love, grief, hunger, expectation—on my back and still outrun it all. I thought I had to.
But something happens when you start losing things. You slow down. You listen more, even if it’s just to the silence people leave behind.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about her. Not just the way she used to laugh when she thought no one was watching, or how she had this way of holding a cup like it was sacred—but the way she saw me. Or tried to. I pushed her out because that’s what I do. It’s cleaner, easier, safer. For me, anyway.
But she… she cracked something open. Made me remember I had a heart, once. And it’s a bitch of a thing, having to face your own humanity after spending so long trying to bury it.
I know I’m not easy. People think I’m cold, calculated. Maybe I am. But I also remember the names of stray dogs. I keep a list of things I’ve never said out loud. I sometimes pull out her old text messages just to read the way she spoke to me when she still believed I was worth something.
I want to be the kind of man who doesn’t ruin what’s beautiful just because he doesn’t know how to hold it.
I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t even know if I’m asking for forgiveness. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.
Because I do. Probably more than I should
Adam