Stories for one person

You don't come to the parties. The photos from last night won't have you in them, same as the photos from last year. I've stopped taking it personally. I've started noticing instead.

You come at 2 a.m., when the sink is coughing up water and I text you a joke about it. Twenty minutes later: the doorbell, a bucket, a face like a mechanic. You come when the car dies on the bridge and I call without thinking, because some part of me already knows who picks up. You come when my mum is in the hospital, and you don't say “let me know if you need anything.” You say, “Thursday. I'm driving.” Then Thursday happens.

I asked you once why you never come around for the fun stuff. You looked at me like the question was broken. “You don't need me for the fun stuff,” you said. “Anyone can do that.”

It took me years to hear it. Not a shrug. The whole sentence you never learned to say, folded up and handed over like a tool: I'm not for the easy days. I'm for the ones with the bucket.

You were right. Anyone can show up when it's easy. You pick the hours nobody wants, and you show up, and you never once call it love.

So here's yours, in the language you actually use: the wrench stays under my sink. The chair by the window stays empty. Both on purpose. Both mean the same thing.

If someone came to mind while you read this, that's who it's for.

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