It Says You're Typing
we haven't talked in five weeks. it's 3:40 and you're typing. you stop, then you start again.
This one goes to a heavy place. If you’d rather not read it tonight, that’s a fine choice — support resources are here.
you're typing.
it's 3:40 and the little dots are there at the bottom of the screen, the three of them, going. we haven't talked in five weeks. i didn't text first. i was just in the thread rereading, which i know i shouldn't, and the dots appeared.
they're still going. they stop, then they start again. somebody on your end is choosing words and deleting them and choosing different ones. i can see you doing it even though i can't see anything.
i'm not breathing normal. i put the phone face down and then pick it right back up because what if it's gone. it's not gone. you're still typing.
i used to know exactly what you'd say. that was the whole thing, the way i could finish it before you sent it. now i'm sitting here with no idea, watching you take this long, and i realize i'm scared of whatever it is. not because it'll be cruel.
because after five weeks you're being careful with me, and you're only careful when it's the last thing.
the dots stopped.
nothing came.
Did this one stay with you?
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