donovan is still sick. he calls from the hospital. again. he leaves a message. again. listening to it, i know i will not call him back. not today, probably not tomorrow. maybe not even the day after that.
because i am a shitty person. because i cannot go there. not yet.
instead, for now, i make it all about me. i write about myself. i write about how his cancer is affecting me. how, just hearing his voice- weakened, tired, medicated- i feel like my mind is skittering perilously close to an electric fence. and about how, nearly a year after this began, it is nearly the same.
the only available response is fuck. still.