“I love you, MacGregor. I do. Bye.”

I wanted to tell her not to bother loving me. I wanted to tell her to just love herself, but I’d already implored her to look at herself through my eyes. What else is left to say?

“I love you too.”

Seemed redundant.

Truth is she worried me.

Worries me.

There seemed to be a decline over the last months of our thing. Maybe it was just around me but maybe not. She seemed just a bit more unkempt. Always a ragamuffin of sorts, but something less together. There was little joy or enthusiasm. Again, maybe just around me.

But the apartment too. Always talking about getting it together but aside from one corner that she made an exceptionally big deal of it just seemed worse. It seemed darker and the air was stiff with cat smells. She blamed the disorder on the nature of her job and the responsibilities, but you would think from the confidence in her assertion that she was certain I’d never met anyone in her profession. It didn’t ring true at all.

It was as close as I’d been to any depression but my own in a long time, and more excuses than an alcoholic, but maybe she learned excuses from her alcoholic dad.

Scary.

And sad.

And not a fucking thing I can do to help.

“I love you too. Bye.”