The birthday text has sat in my drafts for three days now. Happy birthday, I hope you're well. Twelve words I can't make myself send.
I found the bookmark pressed between pages of a book I never finished reading. Blue Ridge Books, it says. Closed four years ago this month.
We used to go there every Saturday. You'd read me first lines until I couldn't breathe from laughing.
Now I'm packing up this apartment. Last week of the lease. Everything I own is either in a box or stuck somewhere I can't reach.
The text sits there on my phone. I open it. I close it. I open it again.
I know what happens if I send it. Your warmth, then the silence. My hope, then the same old ache.
I put the bookmark in a box marked kitchen. It doesn't belong there. But neither does any of this, really.
On Thursday I'll hand over the keys and the draft will stay where it is. Not sending it isn't giving up. It's the first time I've chosen myself over the hope of you.