My afternoon is lonely. It moves slowly. I try not to dwell on it, try not to wallow, but the house is empty except for Puck and me. I open a can of food for Puck when he mewls at my feet, deciding to get dinner for myself as well. I end up warming up leftovers, but they aren’t appetizing. I end up only eating half of them before returning the container to the fridge.

I fold my arms on the kitchen table, resting my head in them. The only sounds I hear are the ticking of the clock in the living room and the clinking of Puck’s collar hitting the ceramic food bowl as he eats.

There’s a part of me that feels angry at myself again—or maybe it’s disappointed—or maybe it’s just both. That part lists off the dozens of things I could have spent the evening doing—how I could have gone to the library to see their new books, or how I could have texted my older sister away in college. I could have still gone to get dinner at the café Marcus and I go to on Wednesdays, or could have taken my camera and a roll of film out for a walk. I could have sketched, could have painted, could have written something.

But I didn’t.

Why didn’t I?

Another mental note—this time, a question for my therapist. I wonder if she’ll have any answer that would help me, though. She usually doesn’t.

I sigh. I wonder how my mom will feel if I tell her that this therapist, my sixth in two years, isn’t helping either.

The last time I had tried to say something, she had slammed the baking sheet on the counter and turned to me, frustration evident in every one of her features.

“We’re running out of options covered by your insurance!”

She had half-shouted the words. She had been exasperated. I understood, I really did—do.

I had wanted to tell her that I was trying and that, honestly, didn’t that count for anything? I had wanted to tell her that I wanted to get better, that I don’t like feeling this way, that I hate that nothing’s working.

But instead, I had hung my head, cast my eyes down, and mumbled, “I know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling slowly, the sensation of hopelessness overwhelming me suddenly, flooding every sense. There’s a tightness in my throat and an aching in my lungs and, sometimes, when I feel this way, I imagine it’s how a person might feel when they just start to drown. I swallow around the lump in my throat and try to breathe, to will away the pain that so quickly turns from emotional to physical.

There’s a knock on the door. I sit up straight suddenly, head turning toward the front hallway. Puck has also stopped eating, ears perked up as he listens.

Another knock, but I still don’t move, a wave of nerves and concern crashing over me.

And then, my phone vibrates on the table. I look at it, the notification lighting up the screen: “New Message from Marcus: Open up, Ci”.

I get to my feet without a second thought, opening the front door. Marcus is sitting on our porch swing, looking like he belongs there—and there’s a part of me that thinks warmly he does. I check that the door is unlocked, then close it behind me. I pad across the cement porch barefoot, squeezing beside him on the swing.

He hands over a strawberry shortcake ice cream bar.

I look at him before I take it. “I thought—”

“David.”

David—his brother. He is only three years younger than Marcus but couldn’t be more different. They always seemed to be fighting. Usually, their older sister Audrey helped ease tensions at the Durant house—but this year, Audrey had started college, and that left just the two brothers.

I take the ice cream from Marcus, carefully tearing away the wrapper.

Marcus is quiet, but I know his mind isn’t. There are days when he is desperate to get everything off of his chest, when he confides in me, when he rants and vents until all of his anger and stress has dissipated. But I can tell from the way that he sits that today is not one of those days.

I take a bite of the ice cream, letting it melt in my mouth. Marcus sits beside me and does the same, and we are silent. We don’t talk. I’m not sure I’d know what to say, anyway. I use my toes to push the swing backwards, then let the momentum rock us forward. I repeat this, again and again, as we eat our ice cream to the sound of the creaking chains of the swing and chirping of crickets.

I lean over and lay my head on his shoulder; in turn, he rests his head on mine. The tension slowly seeps out of his body.

We’re both here, I think, and that’s enough, right now.