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No one has sympathy for you when your life looks this good from the outside.
And honestly, even if I’m losing my mind, at least there’s a dog here.
But I know why she didn’t go into it. The same reason I didn’t in LA when I tried gratitude journaling. Because it was too hard to see my world for its good when its bad was so much louder and more distracting.
It’s so big, so unknowably peculiar to have seen her again that I can hardly believe I was able to do anything but rub my eyes and gawk at her.
We can’t spend every moment treasuring the things we love. We still get mad at the dog for tracking mud through the house even though one day, we would give anything to have her muddy paws back on our white carpet. We still roll our eyes at our parents’ needy voicemails even though one day, those recorded moments will be all we have left.
Was she a fool, or was it love? Is that the same thing?
I look at him. I’m not sure what to say, but I’m touched that he’s identified a problem in his own behavior. Guys so often don’t. People so often don’t.
She’s a little damp from her earlier walk, but somehow she doesn’t reek of wet dog. “Oh, yes, girl, I know,” Cillian says, allowing her to nuzzle against his chest as if she wants to climb directly into his heart. I can relate.
There’s a sense of familiarity but no memory alongside it. I wonder if this is what déjà vu is. What if it’s different realities bleeding through?
