With some larger life changes on the horizon, and less overall safety in the new, I’ve been gravitating towards self-protection over endless personal divulgence.
The pain felt when realizing someone only talks to you when they’re sad is quite specific. It comes on slowly, until, suddenly, you’re faced with weighty questions re: what is friendship, in the vein of Seneca (but with decidedly more estrogen).
“I had been plopped in a daycare center for stunted women, who were to put words to feelings and revel in their expanding bellies until they could go home.” Been into doing more non-fiction short stories lately, so for better or worse, thought I’d start sharing. Apologies in advance to my parents who might cry.