Forty Minutes in the Garage
i've been in the parking garage forty minutes. there's a thing i can't say upstairs, or to my sister.
This one goes to a heavy place. If you’d rather not read it tonight, that’s a fine choice — support resources are here.
I've been sitting in the parking garage for forty minutes. The car's off. My phone says 2:14.
Visiting hours ended a while ago. I should have driven home but I just sat down in the driver's seat and didn't move.
Here's the thing I can't say upstairs, can't say to my sister on the phone, can't say to the nurse who keeps being so kind to me.
I want it to be over.
Not him gone. I don't mean that. I mean the waiting. The drive every night. The way I rehearse my face in the elevator so I look hopeful when I walk in. The way I've started thinking of my own life as the thing that happens between visits.
I love him. That's not in question.
But somewhere in the last month a small ugly part of me started counting, and I hate that part, and I can't make it stop.
I'll go back up tomorrow. I'll bring the lemon ones he likes.
I just needed to say it once, out loud, where only the dashboard could hear.
Did this one stay with you?
Keep reading
More like this
Stories in the same key
Picked for the feeling they share with the one you just read.
Where My Mind Went First
a confession i'm only typing because the room is dark and i can delete it before morning.
The Sign-In Sheet Says Six
My brother's telling his girlfriend it's just been him at the hospital this week. I've signed the visitor log every night too and say nothing.
Letting Her Calls Go to Voicemail
My mom called twice today and I let it ring both times. There's a voicemail from Tuesday I still haven't played.