To care. To actually, care. She is good at sharing, and is accepting of me being away. She talks to me when I wake up and tells me goodbye when I go. I feel like I’ve been on auto mode, but I think maybe I can change. It’s actually good to share things with her. It’s good to hear her being happy — and it’s good to hear when she shares with me her anxieties.

It was something small and inconsequential. Something about skipping a day at the conference, but it broke. I’m so idiotic, I need to stop.

No idea. You seem fragile, smart. Why are you interested in anything I write? Also, you have beautiful legs but I can’t tell you that. Or maybe I could. Nevermind. I like writing you. The long conversations we have remind me of a better time. A long time ago. When I cared. Now I want to cry. One day, we’ll meet. I don’t know what will happen then. Maybe I’ll miss you in the meanwhile. Maybe I’ll give up. I’m also fragile, you know.