Living With Vicky -

I looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time, I saw the cracks in her armor. The same cracks I had. Just hidden differently.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” she said one night. We were both sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by takeout containers and the debris of a truly terrible movie we’d just watched. living with vicky

Vicky seemed to understand anyway. She reached over and stole the last spring roll off my plate. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll wait.” Last week, I came home from a really bad day. The kind where nothing catastrophic happens, just a thousand small failures stacked on top of each other until you feel like you’re drowning in mediocrity. I walked in the door and Vicky took one look at my face and said, “Get in the car.” I looked at her

I keep everything inside. Locked up tight. My therapist calls it “emotional constipation,” which is both accurate and humiliating. Vicky calls it “being a stubborn idiot,” which is also accurate. The same cracks I had

“Then why don’t you?”

“I know,” I said.