I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep. And if I did, it wouldn’t be dreams that greeted me. Sighing, I push the sheet halfway down my body and rub my eyes with the back of my hand. Once my brain is on for the day, it’s on. There’s no going back now. No matter how tired I am from last night.
It makes me hate my ex, Travis, all the more. It took forever to find sleep after he texted me. Just thinking his name makes my body go cold.
God, I don’t want to think about that. Sure as hell not first thing in the morning.
The thoughts spun through my mind all night. I don’t want to think about it; I’d rather focus on the crack in the ceiling, but I can’t stop.
He gets drunk and messages me that he’s sorry. It’s a pattern. One that’s destroyed the woman I used to be. My stomach sinks and my skin feels numb remembering all the times he’s done it. He says he wants me back. If I answer anything at all, I only get more messages. More and more pressure.
I stopped responding months ago on the advice of my therapist, back when I left Travis for good and moved back in with my mother. It doesn’t matter what he says. I’m not going to forgive him. I blocked him after many therapy sessions. It never feels good to block someone, to cut them out of your life with no intention of speaking to them again, but Tobias said it was healthy, that it was necessary. My therapist suggested going no contact, and setting the boundary lifted a weight from my shoulders. Until about ten hours ago.
Last night, Travis texted from a new number. I curl up onto my side under the blanket and squeeze my eyes shut harder. The sheer guilt and fear and anguish that cling to me are enough to make me wish I was dead.
* * *
I know you moved out. I just want to talk …
* * *
I know better than to think he just wants to talk. For the kind of man he is, talking is only the beginning. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile, so I simply can’t give him a damn thing.
The fact he’s aware I moved sends a chill down my spine. Does he know I’m alone? That’s the first question that came to mind. He knew enough to text me from a new number. Travis … he scares me. Even though I don’t want to admit it.
I could change my number … again. But that means spending all afternoon conversing with some guy in a red polo shirt at the phone place and probably getting upsold on a plan I don’t need. Even if I did, he might get the new number, and then what?
Travis doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let things be. I could say goodbye a hundred times and it would mean nothing. I swallow the lump in my throat and throw off the sheet entirely, feeling far too hot and far too suffocated.
I’m going to have to keep blocking him forever.
The thought of him keeping tabs on me scares me to death. It’s what kept me up at night. He doesn’t take no for an answer. It was hard enough when we broke up. It didn’t seem like there was anywhere to go, and I ended up crashing with my mom until I could sign a lease.
The damn alarm sounds off just now. The wretched beeping is my savior. It keeps me from spiraling. Slamming my hand down, I remind myself of the same thing I’ve been saying for weeks now.
I need to stay positive.
That’s what I need to do.
Breakup or not, living with my mom or not, small house or not—wallowing in those feelings won’t get me where I need to go.
On the bright side, I have a new address. I’ve got enough money together for the deposit and the first month’s rent and I’m here, I’m doing it. My life might look a little plain, but it’s mine.
I drift on the bed for a few minutes, traveling through memories and emotions, a pillow between my legs as I stare aimlessly at the wall. As my toe meets the elastic band, I seethe. This fitted sheet is a real problem. When I get everything together again, I’m going to get a set of sheets that’s the right size for the mattress so it doesn’t come off in the middle of the frickin’ night.
That’s a good goal, and simple. I visualize moving down the aisle at Target, looking at the pastel hues of the sheets, everything in a neat row. I know they’re just sheets, but it’s the little things. At twenty-five years old, I’ve never lived by myself. It was always dorms or roommates … or Travis.