The Second Week in August

Chapter 2: Different Pages

I slowly opened my eyes. The room was pitch black with a small sliver of light illuminating the wall opposite me. It didn't matter that it was the early hours of Saturday morning, I could still hear the faint sounds of the city below. A siren in the distance, a yell from a passerby—our condo hadn't seemed to take into account the value of proper soundproofing.

I sighed deeply, frustrated with myself for not being able to give my body the rest it so desperately needed. Even if I had always been a morning person, this constant bone-deep exhaustion night after sleepless night was new.

Ah, the joys of a racing, overactive mind, I thought to myself.

I stifled a yawn, and rubbed the sleep away from my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness. Even though he was one of the deepest sleepers I knew, I turned onto my side quietly, so as not to disturb Ben. Swinging my legs over the bed, I placed my feet on the cool hardwood floor, pausing for a moment. I shivered and quickly stood. Even with the warmer spring temperatures, emerging from the cocoon of my duvet was never pleasant.

I picked up my phone from the nightstand where it was charging and retrieved my robe from the closet. Tightening the belt around my waist, I tiptoed across the bedroom floor, closing the door gently behind me, making my way towards the kitchen in desperate need of caffeine. I leaned against the counter, waiting for my Keurig to deliver my fix for the day. As I waited, I opened Instagram, checking to see what had been posted since I last looked, which had only been six hours ago when my newfound insomnia kicked in.

Kelly Fields—a girl I had gone to high school with, but hadn't spoken to in years—had posted a picture of herself with her husband. From Instagram alone, I knew she had recently been married and was now traveling across Europe with her husband.

I paused on her photo, analyzing the smiling faces looking up at me. With red noses, watering eyes, and windblown hair, clearly Paris was on the chilly side. Despite the temperature, they still looked so...happy. I wondered if Ben and I were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, on a chilly spring day in Paris, would we look that blissfully content?

Probably not.

Maybe?

I wasn't sure anymore.

I shook my head, my unbrushed blonde hair tickling my cheek, and placed my phone down on the counter. I poured a splash of almond milk in my coffee, and carried the hot mug over to the kitchen table, knowing I should get my oatmeal started but unable to resist some mindless internet scrolling. In my exhausted state, moving my thumb on a screen seemed much simpler than chopping up an apple for breakfast.

I scrolled to the top of my feed, clicking on my profile picture to see how many people had viewed my story from last night. Seventy-eight. It was a photo of the back of Ben ordering from the Starbucks barista. The caption read, "Late night coffee date," with a hand-drawn heart placed to the right of the caption. It wasn't an overly sentimental photo, but now, looking at it, I felt foolish for having posted it. Why had I shared a picture that made it appear I was happy when I was struggling?

The answer was obvious. This was something that plenty of people did—painted a picture of their best life through the lens of social media. For me, it felt different, like I wasn't only drawing that picture for social media, but I was doing it for myself, too, trying to convince myself that everything was okay.

I knew I did this because I fluctuated in and out of my states. One moment I would be down in the dumps, seriously considering the future of my marriage, and then, two minutes later,  Ben would correctly anticipate my Starbucks order before I even knew what I wanted. In these moments, convincing myself that my unhappiness was a symptom of some other facet of my life was easy. Maybe it was my job? Or perhaps we just needed a vacation? Hell, I could even convince myself that nothing was wrong, and I was just having a bad day and taking it out on Ben.