Six and a half months

Six and a half months now. Two and a half months until this becomes real in a way I can't pretend away anymore.

I've been thinking about leaving. Not seriously. But the thought sits in my head like a guest I can't politely ask to leave. Just... disappearing. Taking cash and going somewhere Sonya's calls don't reach me. Starting over as someone without a baby and a responsibility and a woman who looks at me like I'm supposed to save her.

But I won't do it. Because I'm not brave enough. And because doing it would make me the villain of my own story instead of the confused protagonist.

So instead I'll stay. And I'll say the right things. And I'll pretend to be transforming into someone better. And Sonya will keep believing it because she needs to. Because the alternative—that the father of her child is fundamentally incapable of actual change—is too terrifying to face.

In therapy, I talk about trying. About growth. About wanting to be better. Dr. Bernini seems to believe me. Or maybe she's just documenting my patterns so that when everything falls apart, there's a record of how I tried and failed.

The truth is I'm not trying. I'm just performing trying. Which is what I've always done. Which is probably all I'll ever be capable of doing.

Sonya felt the baby kicking this week. She grabbed my hand and made me feel it. For a moment I felt something—guilt, maybe, or the shadow of what guilt should feel like. But it passed quickly.

I went back to my phone. Back to my thoughts about Simona. Back to imagining a life where I wasn't this person.