Hope is a surveillance system.
When people have hope for you, they watch you. They check your eyes for dilation. They listen to the cadence of your voice for tremors. They text you at 10:00 PM just to "say hi," but really, they are checking for a pulse.
If I want to leave without interruption, I have to dismantle that surveillance.
I have to make them believe the war is over. I have to make them believe I won.
I sit on a park bench. It is a nice bench, facing a duck pond. The water is murky, but the ducks don't seem to mind. They paddle in circles, oblivious to the fact that they are just floating on dirty water.
I take out my phone.
This is the modern stage. This is where we perform our lives.
I scroll through my photos. I find one from three months ago. A picture of a latte art heart, taken on a day when I felt slightly less miserable than usual. The lighting is warm. It looks cozy.
I upload it to Instagram.
I stare at the cursor blinking in the caption box. This is the most important sentence I will ever write. It has to be casual. It has to be future-oriented.
I type: Finally feeling like myself again. Big things coming next month. #NewBeginnings
I press share.
The lie travels through the airwaves. It pings on satellites. It lands in the pockets of my friends and family.
Almost instantly, the likes start coming in.
Sarah liked your photo.
Mark liked your photo.
Mom commented: "So proud of you, honey! Xoxo"
I watch the notifications roll in like waves. Each "like" is a permission slip. Each heart emoji is a door closing. They see the post, they smile, they think, She's okay, and they put their phones away.
They mentally cross me off their "To Worry About" list.
I am safe.
I get up from the bench.
I have one final performance to give.
I walk to the Italian restaurant on 4th Street. It's expensive. I usually only go here for birthdays or anniversaries.
I ask for a table for one.
The hostess looks at me with pity. People always pity women eating alone. They assume we are lonely. They don't realize that sometimes solitude is a luxury.
I order the carbonara. It is rich, heavy, full of cream and bacon. I order a glass of the most expensive red wine on the menu.
I used to count calories. I used to worry about the way pasta sat on my hips. I used to worry about the hangover from the wine.
Now, consequences are a foreign language. I don't speak it anymore.
The food tastes incredible. It tastes like freedom.
I eat slowly. I savor the texture of the pasta, the bite of the pepper. I am grounding myself in the sensory details of the world one last time.
My phone buzzes.
It's my mother.
I stare at the screen. The name flashes: Mom.
This is the final boss. If I can fool her, I can fool God.
I swipe to answer.
"Hey, Mom," I say. I pitch my voice up an octave. I inject a lightness into it that feels synthetic, like plastic wrap.
"Hi, sweetheart! I saw your post. You sound so good."
"I am," I say. "I really am. I think... I think the fog is finally lifting."
"Oh, thank God," she breathes. I can hear the tension leaving her body through the phone line. "I've been so worried about you."
"I know. I'm sorry I worried you."
"Don't be sorry. Just be happy. That's all I want."
"I am," I lie. "Actually, I was looking at flights. I was thinking of going on a trip just after coming to visit for Dad's birthday next month."
The lie tastes like ash in my mouth.
Next month.
The concept of "next month" is a fairy tale.
" really?" she gasps. "Oh, that would be wonderful! We can make that lemon cake you like."
"I'd love that," I say. "Save me a slice."
"I'll save you the whole cake. Oh, honey, I'm so relieved."
"Me too, Mom. Me too."
"Okay, well, I won't keep you. I assume you're busy with your 'big things'?"
"Yeah," I say. "Just getting ready for tomorrow."
"Good. Get some sleep. I love you."
"I love you too, Mom."
I hang up.
The silence rushes back in, louder than the restaurant noise.
I just promised her a future. I just promised her a cake.
I am a monster.
But a monster with a plan.
She will sleep tonight. She won't call the police. She won't drive over here in a panic. She thinks I am planning a trip. She thinks we'll be baking cakes next month.
I pay the bill. I tip the waiter 50%.
"Have a great night," he says, grinning at the receipt.
"You too," I say. "Make it count."
I walk home.
The city is winding down. The shop lights are flickering off. The world is going to sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow is a guarantee.
For them, it is.
I reach my building. I climb the stairs.
I unlock my door.
The apartment greets me. It is clean. It is organized. The plants are watered. The cat has been fed. The note is on the table.
Everything is in its place.
I lock the door behind me. I slide the deadbolt home.
Click.
That is the sound of the curtain falling.
The performance is over.
I take off the coat. I take off the shoes. I take off the smile.
I go into the bathroom. I look in the mirror one last time.
The woman staring back at me looks tired. But she also looks resolved.
There is no more panic. There is no more fear.
There is only the list.
Rule 1: Completed.Rule 2: Completed.Rule 3: Completed.
I turn off the light.
The darkness is not scary anymore. It is welcoming. It is a soft, velvet blanket waiting to be pulled up over my head.
I walk into the bedroom.
Barnaby meows from under the bed.
"It's okay," I whisper to the dark. "It's all done now."
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The pen is down. The scripts are burned. The audience has gone home.
It is just me and the silence.
And for the first time in years, the silence doesn't scream.
It just waits.