Time heals all wounds. When you have the power to rewind it, you begin to wonder whether it's too much responsibility for one person to hold.
*****
Sometimes, walking away is the sca...
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Iris Fox wasn't ghosting her parents.
In her opinion, ghosting people required some intent to do so, along with a certain malice and desire to make them aware that was what they were being put through.
To ghost people, she'd have to show activity elsewhere, either by mindlessly posting on social media about how vital communication was or how she was thriving, but not too busy that she couldn't reply to unanswered text messages. To ghost people, she'd have to put considerable effort into appearing happy just so the people she was avoiding would realize how much better than everyone else she was, oblivious to how curated online presences were. The grass was always greener and faker on the other side, after all, and Iris had, too, fallen for the trap carefully planted by her doomscrolling ways countless times.
She wasn't doing any of that.
She was doomscrolling, yes, but that was a personality trait by then, but at least she wasn't posting anything of value or acting all high and mighty about knowing there were people worrying about her and expecting a response. If anything, that knowledge only intensified the rotting guilt spreading across her chest.
Ghosting was intentional. Ghosting implied not feeling remorse over your actions. It didn't account for one's inability to open their inbox and reply to every single untouched message and email, including work emails, caused by an intense fear of what would happen if they were to interact with the outside world, even through a phone.
Lately, it was a miracle she managed to drag herself out of bed some mornings. Her room looked like it had been attacked by a violent tornado, clothes and books scattered all around with nowhere to store them (the designated clothes chair was buried deep under week-long layers of laundry at that point), and there was barely an inch of free space on her desk for any more cups of coffee or boxes of takeout. With ghosting, none of those things would even be considered a concern.
They wouldn't exist, period, but there were things you couldn't tell people without it sounding alarming, and apologizing for disappearing for weeks on end because you were too miserable to pick up the phone was one of them.
Misery was like a dog, Iris found. It was loyal.
With a grunt, Iris kicked away the covers and rolled out of bed, praying the floor wouldn't give out under her feet as soon as her socks brushed against the floorboards.
Gathering the heavy weight of her dark hair into a messy bun, mostly to get it out of her face and not thanks to a sudden wave of vanity (like it would even be possible to make it look good after a week of not showering), Iris made the first brave decision of the day by getting up.
