His mind was awash with unfinished conversations. The entire month folded itself into one big question mark, and he didn’t have the answers. He wanted to say something, but everything he needed to say was an apology—to his notifications and the people who left them.
"I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
"I’m sorry I didn’t call back.”
"I’m sorry I didn’t come to the door."
Lies would be easier.
"My phone was stolen; I had to replace it.”
"I had malaria.”
"I wasn’t home."
The real story was more simple: I woke up and didn’t want to see the sun. My arms, legs, chest—too heavy to do anything but breathe, and even that was a chore. I don’t know why—why I woke up or why I rather not move. I usually give it time, and it passes. This time, it has been 3 months. But yes, yes, I’m fine.
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