Imagining things again, future things, things that won’t happen, because they’re only in my head. Things like what my father wants to talk to me about. Things like how Thanksgiving will go with his wife. Things like how I’ll feel when I see my boyfriend. Things like how my life will unfold, how the world will unfold while I’m still on it.
And then the lies. Are you OK? A slow, hesitant nod. One that is accepted. I look happy. It’s because of my period. I should consider therapy. I shouldn’t waste my money. Why not? I throw enough of it away on makeup that doesn’t suit me.
And so I sit in my thoughts, thinking and imagining and wondering when it will all be over, wishing it had never begun, wishing I could fix it, wishing I could do something. But, no. Apparently this is what life is.