The Posy Diaries

Kennedy Morrison is an unapologetic 20-something year old in the throes of recovering from a recent breakup from Blake Henley. Blake lives thousands of miles away from her. Kennedy has chronic depression and anxiety and Blake has ADHD and depression. They're both chronically sad and lonely. Can Kennedy stop her consumption by her own worst enemy: herself? Is her relationship with Blake salvageable?


Author's note

WARNING: This story contains strong language, graphic imagery, explicit sexual content, and possible drug use. Please read at your own discretion. You must be 18 years old or older to read this.

3. III.




You were usually behind my fluttering eyelids. I found you in supermarket aisles and in the bread I picked up, in the expiration date 2.16.15, that would later hold some significance to me but I wouldn't know in what way yet. Just the first two numbers. I avoided going to most places early in the day and slept in most of the time until later in the afternoon. Usually when I was off. I’d make plans with the small circle of friends I had and would abruptly cancel them last minute. I’d become painfully gifted at concocting the dumbest excuses too:

“Aw man, I’m actually feeling really sick.”

“You know what? My period just came and I’m super nauseous. I’d love to come to your cookout, you know I would but I’d just be in the corner bitching the whole time. I’m so sorry hon.”
“I’m suffering from severe sleep deprivation.”
“I have awful back pain and my doctor gave me some prescription painkillers and I absolutely can’t drive on them. So sorry hon. Can we reschedule for next week?”

I never just outright said that I was depressed and reeling from nearly debilitating anxiety. Ever. It was rare that the admittance came out. Instead, I resorted to using the lamest excuses ever. Eventually, your friends stop calling and messaging you on Facebook. Their concern for you dwindles. Their sighs become wary and laden with I’m so over it—annoyance. They see you as a downer. They see the ugliest bits of your illness exposing itself and you just repeatedly giving in to the wallowing and they refuse to commiserate with you.

And I couldn’t say that I blamed my friends from college for phasing out of my life. Quietly and slowly like ghosts.

I went to work and left immediately after my shift. Most of my interactions consisted of, “Hey, how are you?” “How did that party turn out?” “How was your date?” “Ah, interesting” or “No, we're not talking right now.” I tried to avoid the fitting of your name in my mouth. I wanted it to feel foreign. I avoided your conversation and danced around it every chance I received, redirecting the conversation to the other person. How were they doing? What was going on with their lives? Who were they seeing? If anyone at all? I didn’t really care but for the sake of keeping up appearances and an air of faked politeness, I had to seem like I did.

You were every addict nodding off in street corners, melting into the foreground of an alleyway, melding into the darkness, becoming one with the shadow of a bright streetlamp. Every cat that greeted me and approached was your own. Every stupid dog that yipped and howled was your own. Every guy on Tinder that I swiped left on was you. It was worse when the words “army veteran” would coincidentally be their own descriptor that they would use.





It could have been anything, “loves singing spontaneously in the shower” or “only fucks sideways” … and then I would still somehow think of you. I would trace your name into the condensation of my bathroom mirror and cuddle with my dog. Then I’d contemplate spooning Ben & Jerry's into a red bowl. Even the bowl reminded me of your own...because you also liked the color red. Stupid little reminders…all of them. Every single one.

The fact that you liked the color was a part of your username for most of the online applications we'd talked on. And boy, had we talked on a lot: Skype, Curse, Discord, and Facebook Messenger…

I thought about hurling the chinaware against my apartment wall but realized that Annalise would probably not appreciate having to tentatively step over fractured and splintered shards of porcelain, scattered like shotgun shells. Then I thought of you in the army, garbed in your uniform identifying you as an E4 Specialist. I blinked away a barrage of hot tears and walked over to my fridge.

The microwave's digitized numbers read 2:34 AM. It was 1:34 AM where you were. I wondered if you were sleeping with another woman. The thought made my cheeks flush and I dug my nails into my palms—angry half-moon marks.

I ignored my small calendar that was stuck onto the white fridge by a magnet in the shape of Barbados. I chose to blatantly disregard the passage of time because each day bled into each other. It was like a painting made exclusively from watercolor. All of the colors faded into each other.

It looked like that outside too, the night, when I decided to message you. I knew that it was weeks after I had touched back down in my own quiet cul-de-sac. I passed my fingers over the brick of my apartment complex, rough, digging into my skin as I pressed into them. Perceptible. The pain was sharp and unrelenting.

I retrieved the ice cream container and my Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Ein regarded me with a head tilt.

“You're reminding me of him too...? What the hell?!” I cussed at him savagely and then immediately regretted it.

I thought about throwing the ice cream container against the wall instead. Then I thought of calling your friend James and selfishly talking about how I missed you and was quite honestly obsessed. Then I decided to phone my therapist tomorrow and talk about that instead. I highly doubted that your friend wanted to hear anything about you anymore. I was sure that most of my friends were sick of hearing about you too—that Annalise wanted to staple my mouth shut and exclaim, “For the love of God, no more about this guy. It's done. It's gone. He never cared. He doesn't care. I'm sorry but I fucking hate seeing you like this.”






I dug into the ice cream violently with a soup spoon and pattered down the hallway to my bedroom, the TV screen emitting a soft light that halfway flooded the floorboards in a sickly bluish tint. My dog joined me on the bed, my vigilant and one constant companion in my otherwise miserable life. He was always with me. I ruffled his fur and he placed his oversized head on my lap.

“I love you, you stupid little mutt, you know that right?” I confessed into his furry forehead speckled with cream hairs.

He wagged his tail in silent reply. Once. Twice.

“Yes, yes I do.”

And then I messaged you and cried myself to sleep.




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