We talked

We had lunch yesterday. I think I already wrote about this but it bears repeating because I need to convince myself—and probably her—that I meant what I said.

She asked me directly: "Are we doing this together?"

I couldn't answer right away. Not because I don't know the answer—I do—but because saying it out loud makes me feel trapped. So I hesitated. Long enough that she noticed. Long enough that I had to lie.

The truth is I'm barely hanging on. The baby is real now. Sonya is real. The future is real. And I want none of it.

But I can't say that. So I said: "Yes. We're doing this together."

She cried. Not happy tears. Relief tears. Like she'd been holding her breath and finally exhaled. Which made me feel worse, which made me want to leave, which made me stay and pretend to be comforted.

I went to the gym this afternoon. Simona was teaching. I watched her move through the class and thought about how easy it would be to just... not be with Sonya. To pretend none of this happened. To start over.

For forty-five minutes I imagined a different life. One where I wasn't responsible for anyone. One where Simona looked at me the way she looked at the people in her class—with actual care instead of the polite acknowledgment I get now.

Then I went home and held Sonya while she talked about baby names and small practical things—appointments, paperwork—and I said things like "That sounds nice" and "Whatever you want" and inside I was somewhere else entirely.

She asked if I was okay. I said yes. She didn't believe me but she didn't push.

I hate myself for this. But not enough to actually change.