but he's sorry,

and I still think about that gatorade on the kitchen table

this story is part III of IV for paid subscribers x

I finally wake at 11am and the sun is high in the sky. I called out of work today, because strep throat is going around my classroom and I’m 90% certain I have it, judging by the puss-filled pockets lining the back of my throat. I shuffle my feet through our tiny 70’s apartment, across the carpeting of the living room, and into the kitchen— where the light pours in and I have a tiny little easel set up in the corner.

Maybe I’ll feel better by the weekend and I can open the paints I bought.

I turn to the fridge, eagerly looking for a cold drink— and notice a little pile of things stacked on the up-cycled kitchen table. He’s left me my favorite soup, paired with two of my favorite flavored gatorades, and a little vase full of flowers. He must have woken up early to hit the store before his shift… something only someone who loves you would care to do. Next to it is a note scribbled with capital-letter handwriting I’d recognize anywhere, letting me know he’ll be back later from work to take care of me. In this moment, no one in my life has noticed my needs like this. In this moment, my heart swells at the thought of finally being taken care of. I remember the feeling in my body within this moment, frozen solid in my kitchen with my swollen throat and eager heart. No boy had ever given for the sake of giving before this. There were moments before this one where I was discarded on a cold bathroom floor in my own vomit, there were moments of forgotten birthdays …and everything between those two spectrums.

There had really never been any moments of being truly held.