may 29th, 2017 
boston, massachusetts
slumber parties, lunches with old friends, pep talks with new friends, spa days on the other side of the world, day drinking, night drinking, stoned shopping… basically, you’ve done everything you can think of to try and distract yourself from the backwards shitshow that is your life. it’s the wedding talk that really makes your heart sink and does you in, though. and despite the sinking feeling in your chest, you still do your best to smile and be excited, because you should be happy, hell, you want to be happy for her, for them. she’s one of your best friends, she’s your family. but it’s a double edged sword. you’d never admit it, but there’s a tiny part of you that is jealous that you didn’t get the whole stupid to-do, that you can’t even remember getting married, but more than that, it reminds you that you haven’t actually seen your husband in thirteen days.

it’s been thirteen days since the last time you saw him, eleven since you found the letter and a week since the last time you spoke. you tell yourself that part is your fault, because you’re too damn stubborn to text him or call him, especially when the last time you tried, you were met head on with resistance. it’s the one part of this whole stupid situation you have any control over. but there’s still a part of your brain that tells you that you shouldn’t be counting the days like you are, but your heart begs to differ, and the whole thing has your stomach tying itself in knots.

no one really knows because you still have a hard time talking about it, because frankly, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. not really. you can understand the letter and how it set him on edge, you can see why he might need to clear his head. but you can’t help but wonder what it was you did to cause this rift, because it had to be more than just the letter that was keeping him away. even if roxy told you that it wasn’t your fault, that you hadn’t done anything, you still wonder what happened to make things change so suddenly, when things had actually been going well.

the past two weeks, it’s felt like your brain has been running a mile a minute and you’ve done everything you could think of to keep your mind on other things. but tonight there’s no distractions. dani and roxy are off in atlantic city, you’ve cleaned up, you’ve fed the cat, and you ran out of beer an hour ago. you don’t even want to smoke because you’ve smoked so much lately that your fucking throat is raw. so it’s just you, alone with your thoughts, in this big, empty, echoey apartment.

when the end credits of the last episode of season three of kimmy schmidt start to roll, it dawns on you just how long you’ve been laying on the couch like a fucking lump. a groan slips past your lips as you sit up and grab your phone, staring down at the screen that’s telling you it’s somehow after 11PM. “what the fuck?” you mumble to yourself, dropping your phone onto the couch beside you and you bury your face in your hands, sniffling loudly as you shut your eyes.

a few moments pass before you let out a heavy sigh and drop your hands and heave yourself back onto your feet. there’s a split second when you stare at the wedding band on your finger and you have to swallow down the lump in your throat as you pick your phone back up and find his number. you’re planning on just telling him you’re going to go out of town for a couple days, that you’re going to go home and see your parents, that you need to get the fuck out of this apartment and clear your head. he at least deserves the same courtesy that he extended to you, no matter how hurt or confused you might be. you think about even maybe telling him that you miss him. but you don’t get the chance, because it suddenly feels like your head is splitting in half.

the phone drops from your hand, and you go down with a loud thud as your head hits the floor.