I just… I gotta get this out. It’s late, everyone’s asleep, I guess. I live with my girlfriend, we been together like… eight years now? Maybe nine. And lately, like the last year or so, maybe longer, I just… I don't wanna be around her. Every single day, every day, I find ways to not be home. I pick up extra shifts at work, even though my boss thinks I’m a workaholic. Archivist stuff, filing old papers, it’s quiet, you know? Nobody talks much. I volunteer at the library on Saturdays too. Even started taking a pottery class. My hands get all messy, it’s kinda nice. My parents are getting older too, so I spend a lot of time over there, checking on them. My kids are grown, moved out, but I still call them, make sure they’re okay. It’s always something. Something else to do. It’s not like she’s bad. She's not. She's… fine. She asks about my day, tries to make dinner sometimes. We have our little routine, you know, like any couple. But I just get this… feeling. Like a tightness in my chest, a dread, when I think about just being… home. With her. Just us, on the couch, watching TV, no plans. That unstructured time. I just can’t. I make excuses. Oh, I have to finish that report. Oh, the car needs oil. Oh, I promised Mrs. Henderson I’d help her with her garden. I tell myself it’s because I’m busy, because I’m a good person, helping out. But really… it’s to avoid. Avoid just… being there. Every single day, every day. And then I feel guilty, don’t get me wrong. HORRIBLE guilt. Because she doesn't deserve it. She really doesn't. She’s a good woman. And I care about her. I DO. But the thought of just… sitting there, talking about nothing, or not talking at all, just… existing in the same space, for hours, it makes me wanna run. So I keep busy. Every weekend is packed. Every evening is packed. I’m exhausted, every day. So tired. But it’s better than… that. I don’t know what to do. What would anyone even say? I'm just… living this way. It’s easier than facing… whatever this is.