Word Vomit

Formalities

My mother asked me about you.

"How is he?"

There was no tone of malice – a question so simple and innocent yet carry a heavy weight in my heart.

"How is he?"

I'd repeat. Hoping that maybe the silence that will come after the words spill out will be enough to answer both our question.

"How is he?"

Weird. If she asked me this question a few months ago, I wouldn't have hesitated and answered in a heartbeat. I would have answered her with paragraphs and not with a mere sentence filled with uncertainty.

"How is he?'

Every day, I'd repeat the same question to myself. Over and over and over. Only to be answered by the deafening silence which – ironically – slaps so loud in the face that I have no clue to the answer. Not anymore.

"How is he?"

I have no fucking clue. I haven't had any since the day he last held my hand for fear that he couldn't go on and walk another step out of his stupid, stubborn fantasy – his desperation for me to stay. I have no idea. I haven't had any since the day I promised myself to stop looking out for him so much that I wasn't even looking out for me; since the day I chose myself.

"How are you?"

Please tell me. Because despite the fact that I chose myself over you, I still fucking care. My insides still burble with worry over how you feel and my lungs still tighten by the fact that I don't have the right to ask you that question. Damn. Do me favor for old times' sake. Tell me how you are.