43. Emerson
EMERSON
When I wake up, there’s a minute where I forget.
A minute where everything feels normal.
Where the world hasn’t changed.
Where my mom is still here.
She’s still in her kitchen humming while she makes coffee. She’s still texting me reminders to eat something. She’s still calling me because she has a story she needs to tell me, even if it’s one she’s already told me three times before.
For one perfect minute, I get her back.
Then reality comes rushing in.
I remember the hospital room.
I remember the machines.
I remember the way her body got weaker and weaker.
I remember spending months learning every part of her illness. Every appointment. Every medication. Every bad day disguised as a good one. I remember pretending I wasn’t scared because she needed me to be strong.
And I remember the moment she took her last breath.
Her hand was still in mine.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been sleeping so much.
Maybe I’m chasing this one minute of ignorance every chance I get.
That tiny moment before my brain catches up and reminds me that she’s gone.
That I don’t have to check her medication anymore.
That I don’t have to sit beside her bed or memorize the sound of her breathing.
That the person who spent my entire life taking care of me—as best she could—is someone I will never get to take care of again.
For a moment, I can forget the guilt.
The guilt that maybe I should have done more.
The guilt that there should have been something else I could have tried.
The guilt that I was so focused on being strong for her that I never let myself fully admit I was losing her.
But then it registers that it wasn’t a bad dream.
She’s not in the next room.
She’s not waiting for me to come visit.
She’s not going to open her eyes and tell me I’m worrying too much.
She’s gone.
Something woke me up this morning, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Maybe it was the sound of a car outside. Maybe it was a notification on my phone. Maybe it was just my own body reminding me that I was still here.
I don’t know.
I don’t want to get up and check.
I don’t even want to open my eyes because that feels like admitting the truth all over again.
My mom has been gone for months, and somehow the pain doesn’t get smaller.
It just changes.
It settles deeper.
I don’t know how people survive losing someone who was such a part of them. I don’t know how people wake up every day and accept that the person they love most in the world is just… Gone.
What scares me is how easy it would be to stop fighting it.
To let the grief swallow me whole.
Because at least in that darkness, I don’t have to remember. At least there, I can pretend she’s still alive.
I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live.
The thought should be a wake-up call, a cry for help, a warning for what’ll happen if I let myself stay here.
I just need another minute.
Another minute where I get to have my mom back.
And that’s the last thought I have before I let myself drift back to sleep.
I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if I’m awake.
Maybe I’m somewhere in between.
A strange, endless space where time doesn’t move the way it’s supposed to, and my body feels like it belongs to someone else.
It’s like I’m underwater, suspended in the middle of the pressure instead of feeling it crushing down on me. Everything is distant. Muffled.
There’s nothing except the faint ache of thirst scratching at the back of my throat and the hollow pain twisting in my stomach.
I think it’s been a few hours.
Maybe a day or two.
Maybe longer.
But I don’t know.
The thought should scare me.
It doesn’t.
I’ll get up soon.
I know I will.
Just not yet.
My phone had been vibrating somewhere beside me, the sound cutting through the fog every so often before fading away again. It cuts through the music I have playing, needing to fill the silence with something.
At first, I knew it was someone trying to reach me.
Mateo, probably.
Maybe Ava or Rumi.
Or Jack.
Someone checking in.
It’s constant, begging for my attention.
Part of me wants to find the source.
But the other part of me—the stronger part—doesn’t let me.
It feels like one arm is reaching while the other fights to keep it still.
An inner battle I don’t have the power to win.
So I just stop.
Stop fighting.
Stop wondering.
Stop caring.
Until eventually, guilt wins out.
Not enough to get out of bed.
Not enough to call anyone.
Just enough to reach blindly toward my phone and send the words I know will make everyone leave me alone.
I’m okay. Just exhausted. I think I’m coming down with something.
A lie.
But not completely.
Because I am exhausted.
I am sick.
Just not in the way they would understand.
I check Ava’s texts.
Ava
What do you want to eat? Anderson and I will come drop off food
Don’t worry about it
Mateo’s picking up dinner
Then Rumi’s.
Rumi
Emerson Roxanne
Pick up the phone
Right now
Please
On the phone with Mateo
Call you later!
Then my brother’s.
Jack
If I don’t hear from you tomorrow, I’m coming over.
No need. Mateo’s on his way
Finally, Mateo’s.
Mateo
Do you need me to come over?
My chest tightens.
Because the answer is yes.
But I can’t make myself type it.
So instead, I send the thing I’ve gotten too good at saying.
No. I’m okay
I just need to sleep it off, and I don’t want to get you guys sick.
Tell Crew I’m sorry.
I’ll see you guys soon xx
The buzzing eventually stops.
So does the music. I don’t even have the strength to put it back on.
The silence was too loud until I stopped caring about that too.
I don’t know how long it’s been since I heard it.
Minutes?
Hours?
The pain in my stomach is what finally gets me moving.
Not because I’m ready to face the day.
Not because I suddenly feel better.
Because my body has reached the point where it refuses to be ignored.
My bladder aches painfully, the kind of desperate discomfort that makes me wonder how long I’ve been lying here without moving.
My mouth feels like sandpaper, my throat dry and scratchy from not drinking enough water.
My stomach twists painfully, caught somewhere between hunger and nausea, reminding me that I can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t just a few bites of whatever was closest.
For a few seconds, I just lie there staring at the ceiling.
Trying to convince myself that standing up is easy.
That it’s just standing.
People do it every day.
But my body feels heavy, like I’ve been sinking into this mattress for years instead of days.
Still, I force myself up.
The second my feet hit the floor, my entire world tilts.
A rush of dizziness crashes over me, the room spinning so violently I have to reach out for something—anything—to keep myself upright. My knees buckle, and I grab the edge of the nightstand as black spots creep into my vision.
The corners blur first.
Then everything.
For one terrifying second, there’s nothing.
No room.
No floor.
No sound.
Just darkness.
I swallow hard, waiting for the world to come back.
And when it does, I’m still standing there, shaking, realizing just how long I’ve let myself disappear.
But I just don’t care.
My head is pounding.
No.
It’s not my head.
It’s the door.
Someone is pounding on my door.
I told Jack not to come.
I grab my pillow, pressing it down over my head to try to block the noise.
It doesn’t work.
Why is he still knocking?
He has a key.
Anger rises, hot and uncomfortable.
I almost don’t recognize it.
These past couple of days, I’ve been too tired to be angry. Too tired to be anything.
Just me and the ceiling. Me and the sheets. Me and the darkness.
But now my pulse is racing, my hands are shaking, and I’m remembering what it feels like to want something.
Even if what I want is for him to leave.
It takes a few tries to stand up from the bed, my body aching after being in the same position for so long, as I open my bedroom door.
My apartment is a complete mess. It usually doesn’t get this bad after a day or two.
Except this doesn’t look like two days.
I stand there, staring at the evidence of my disappearance, like I’m looking at someone else’s home.
The dishes in the sink have crusted over.
Clothes are scattered across the floor, some clean, some definitely not.
The trash can is overflowing, and unopened mail spills out from beneath the front door.
The curtains are still drawn, keeping the apartment trapped in a permanent gray haze.
On the counter, the flowers I bought have wilted, their petals scattered around the vase.
I blink at them.
It’s only been two days, I tell myself. Maybe three.
The stale air. The scattered empty water bottles on the floor. The blanket still holding the shape of my body. The way everything looks untouched, like the world kept moving while I stayed here, frozen.
My stomach twists as the pounding on the door registers again, my name coming from the other side.
I look down at my clothes. I’m in nothing but an old white camisole and a pair of underwear. I have one sock on, the other probably lost somewhere in my bed.
“Emerson!”
It’s Mateo.
Mateo’s here.
Before I can even think about what he’s going to think when he sees me, I open the door, the strain in his voice enough to have me acting on impulse.
The second the door swings open, his expression changes.
Relief hits first.
Then confusion.
Then something that looks dangerously close to fear.
He’s wearing a wrinkled Northshore Fire Department T-shirt, and his boots are untied.
His dark hair is messy, like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day.
There’s a crease between his eyebrows that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.
His eyes scan over me quickly—not in judgment, not even surprise, but like he’s checking for injuries.
Like he’s making sure I’m real.
“Emerson…”’
My name leaves his mouth like he’s been holding it in for hours.
I’m standing in my doorway, half-dressed, surrounded by the disaster of my apartment, looking at someone who looks terrified.
And I realize I have no idea what day it is.
No idea how long I’ve been gone.
No idea how long everyone else has been worried.
“Mateo,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking over my face again.
“I’ve been calling you.”
My stomach drops.
“I know you said you were sick, and I got in my head that maybe you wanted some space, which is fine.” His eyebrows pull together, like he’s still trying to make sense of the moment.
“I can give you space—I will give you space, if that’s what you want.
” The words hang between us for a moment, and then Mateo clears his throat.
“But then today I ran into Jack at the station, and he asked how you were doing, and I was so confused because I haven’t seen you all week, not since we went to dinner after Crew’s orientation.
” His eyes flick past me briefly, taking in the apartment—the dishes, the clothes, the darkness—and something shifts in his expression.
“And then I got a call from Talia, and Crew—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
The fog in my head shifts.
Mateo’s face.
The panic in his voice.
Then another name breaks through.
“Crew.”
“He’s okay, baby,” he repeats, but I can only stare at him.
“What happened?”
“He fell.”
The pounding in my chest eases just enough for me to breathe. “What do you mean ‘he fell’? What does that even mean?”
Mateo exhales. “Talia took him to the park.” His shoulders drop slightly, exhaustion finally showing through. He steps through the doorway, and I move to the side to let him, letting the door shut behind him. “He was running around on the playground, and he tripped. He landed directly on his arm.”
“His arm,” I repeat, trying to register the words.
Mateo’s expression softens slightly, but it’s not his frustration fading; it’s like he’s trying to rein it in.
“He’s okay. He cried when it happened, obviously.
He’s four—well, almost five. He thought his arm was going to fall off.
” He ushers me inside, leading me to the couch, but his arms hover a few inches from me, like he doesn’t want to touch me—or maybe he thinks he can’t.
“I came straight here after they put the cast on. He was scared at first. Kept asking if it was going to hurt and if his arm was going to be stuck in the cast forever.” Mateo smiles, but it’s a sad one.
And I hate it. “But then they told him he could pick the color, and suddenly he was fine.”
We sit down on the couch, and he sets a blanket over my lap. I didn’t even see him grab it.
“What color?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s probably the least important information I need right now, but it’s the only thing that comes out.
“Pink,” Mateo answers softly, “he kept saying how he couldn’t wait to show you.”
I close my eyes, and the tears fall instantly.
A week of darkness.
So intense that I couldn’t even tell that time was passing.
Everyone kept moving while I disappeared.
Life kept happening.
Crew broke his arm.
The sobs hit me hard enough to knock all the wind out of me, and I can’t stop them.
I feel Mateo’s arms wrap around me, and I hang on to his arm across my chest just to stay grounded. All the feelings I’ve been avoiding for days, weeks, months come rushing in, and it feels like I’m dying. Actually physically dying.
And I don’t want to die.
The pain is so severe that my lungs begin to burn as I fight to take a breath.
“Breathe, baby,” Mateo whispers against my forehead before he presses a kiss to the skin. “Breathe for me. Please.”
I try, but I can’t. It’s like all the air in the room was sucked out, and I’m suffocating, slowly, right before his eyes.
“I’m right here, Emerson. I got you,” he says, over and over again.
I don’t know how long I cry in his arms, but it’s long enough for my eyes to burn and my throat to ache even worse than it did when I got out of bed today.
I inhale my first full breath, and it makes my chest hurt. I exhale shakily before trying again, feeling my shoulders rise and fall, Mateo’s arms never releasing me from their hold, just loosening slightly to let me take in my breaths.
“I didn’t mean to.” They’re the only words I can manage to say, and they don’t even scratch the surface of what I’m trying to say.
I didn’t mean to disappear for so long.
“You’re here now,” Mateo says, hearing the words I can’t manage to say. His palm finds the side of my face, urging my eyes to meet his. “You’re here now,” he repeats, and the words finally land.
I close my eyes, laying my head on his shoulder.
“I need to go see her,” I whisper, and I feel Mateo hold me tighter.
“I know,” is all he says, and then the tears come all over again.