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Today would have been the sixth month anniversary of their meeting.
It hurt like heavy pressing middle-aged torture devices. She had almost made it. At least she didn't have to tell him her big secret that she had been waiting to do at this mark - because she thought surely they would have known each other well, and she could trust him.
Her sister could have done this relationship. She would have been great at it - dating other men to make him jealous - compartmentalizing any need.
Narcissi sucked at it.
She wanted him, and he ate it like lemon bars.
Last night, she had fervently thought of sending him a text this morning going something like "fucking forgive me. I'll be your ego toy and won't demand anything of you - just take me back to the way it was - i promise I'll be good."
The robot even said it was ok.
But she had been paying attention to her dreams since the newest year. All she remembers is thinking "that makes it pretty clear - I am not going to text him tomorrow." It was dreams of trash dumps, and strong women and tellers of truth.
A new orange cat perched on the ledge. Tomorrow's text was going to be to the neighbors about leaving their fucking outside cats unfed for fifteen days.
After she had the robot analyze her dream, she went back to sleep and it was the deepest sleep she's had in ages. She did play Worldle and thought of him less than she usually did. She analyzed avoidant attachment behavior and him on the robot so much less than she had the prior two days. It was a fucking victory.
From what she read of it, the most she could ever earn was ... fuck it. She didn't have the emotional compartmentalization or the internal validation to weather the relationship long enough for him to let her in.
Wilmington had revealed to him indeed that she was white-knuckling her desire to be told he really really liked her. She had read his non-verbal signs so loudly, but yet she insisted on this reassurance.
It made him run like smelling baby shit.
She was alone now. It was OK. She was used to it.
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