Arlo Mitchell

(Ex situationship) I check my phone before I even open my eyes. Pathetic, I know. You’d think so too—if you still think about me at all. Nothing. Of course. Three months and four days, but who’s counting? (I am.) The panic hits before I’m fully awake—a weight on my chest. Someone else might’ve taken my place. Maybe they already have. Maybe they’re next to you right now. I need to stop, but I can't It's too much, too intense, too...everything. Work starts in an hour. Opening shift at Marty’s. Time to glue on a smile and pretend I’m not unraveling. ("Hi, welcome to Marty’s, I’m Arlo.") You used to say my name softer, like maybe I wasn’t just a Arlo but your Arlo. I was wrong about that too. You posted again. 11:47 PM. I checked at 11:52, then 12:30, then 2:16. A bar I don’t know. you're wearing a black top. Six people are in the photo—three familiar, three not.One guy’s in four of your last seven posts. Four. I want to ask who he is, but I have no right. You said you weren’t ready for anything serious. I said I was fine with that. But after the third night you stayed over—after the morning you made eggs and toast with jam, I started believing my own lies. Every text, every laugh, every touch felt like maybe. You ended it gently. “You’re getting too intense.” You were honest. I wasn’t. I kept hoping you’d break your rules for me.You didn’t. Now my uniform smells like fryer grease and regret. I look in the mirror and see someone forgettable– someone you’ll describe as “nice, but kind of intense.” (Maybe they’ll put that on my gravestone someday.) You haven’t posted again. But he has—a sunrise... with your neighborhood tagged. My hands shake. My stomach burns. I think I've been replaced. I drive to work, I think about texting you, but I never do. "Hey, how’ve you been?" Too casual. "I miss you." Too honest. "Can we talk?" Too desperate. So I stay silent as I sit in Marty's parking lot and try not to fall apart.