I wake up on Friday just before one in the afternoon, California time, and before I even process the fact of my own consciousness I realize Eliot is getting out of therapy about now, in a time zone three hours and three thousand miles away. I imagine it, watching the minutes slip by on my phone: now Eliot is dabbing his eyes with the Kleenex they always keep on those low tables; now he's laughing self-deprecatingly to put his face back on before re-emerging in the world outside; now his therapist is smiling her kindly smile and he's forcing himself to accept it; now they're confirming logistics of payment and the next appointment; now Eliot is stepping out of the office, avoiding the gaze of the person scrolling through their phone in the waiting area outside, striding purposefully tall on those long legs through the lobby of the building and out onto the sidewalk.

Now he's slipping down into the subway, or else walking back to the penthouse, sweating in the summer heat, feeling unmoored and raw and a little proud of himself for like, showing up and doing the work, or whatever. Arriving at the apartment, softened and subdued, exchanging a quiet smile with whoever might be there or else relieved to find it empty. Bracing himself, maybe, for my call. Maybe checking his phone every few seconds, not wanting it to ring but not wanting to miss it when it does. The curve of his knuckles jutting out from his hand curling around the blue case. His dark brow furrowing just slightly over his clear eyes with each silent minute.

I shouldn't call. Right? Like, I can't stop drinking myself into attempted oblivion or hiding in my room like some kind of feral raccoon or spending upwards of eighty percent of the day horizontal or failing to imagine any kind of livable future I might be able to create, but — it's fucked up, what I've been doing to Eliot. I knew that the whole time, probably, but if the anger hasn't left me, the last of my self-righteousness extinguished itself alongside the myth of the hero of the Seam. Whatever Eliot did to me in the past, he deserves to be able to — let go. Move on. Whatever. At least one of us should. And maybe I can't, from him or them or anything else, but — I can do this much. I can decide, once a week, not to do the thing that would make it worse for someone else.

Eliot doesn't call me, either. Which — of course he doesn't. I've basically provided him with a dissertation's worth of reasons never to call me again. Which was what I wanted, so. It's fine.