It isn’t like you’re stupid or anything. You can see the end coming even before he does: he stops leaving his toothbrush or his CDs over at your place and he won’t fuck you that last night, a permanent bubble around him as he sleeps because every time you shift closer he rolls away. All signs that he’s withdrawing, even if he doesn’t know it.

But it’s not like you care.

You bait him with obvious questions and frank statements, mostly because you need to gauge his reaction and plan your next move. But you also kind of want to see him squirm. “I’d move with you.” It’s a well placed lie, just so you can smirk as he turns away, mind foggy and mouth full of cotton.

So it’s not like you care.

His eyes are on the columns of data, stocks and bonds and useless digits, but you can feel the distance in his head, his thoughts in a stupid little town and the girl answering phones there, you can tell from the way his shoulder rests on yours like its gone limp, body weightless from the consciousness of himself that’s vacant. So you leave. Visit your friends. Wash him out of your hair. And you’re the better for it.

Since it’s not like you care.

You’re prepared, as your cell phone’s screen glows against the interior of your purse and the ID flashes Jim, for him to inform you that he can’t take the job. Or that he can’t see you anymore. The impact of both throws you a bit off balance, like the world has just been spun off its axis. But then it shifts and everything is right again and by the time you’ve reached the hotel room you’ve thought of a million reasons why he’s doing you a favor.

So obviously it’s not like you care.

The fact that your apartment is empty and silent when you get home, by cab (you’ll send him the bill), makes your confidence wean a little, but you quickly shake the doubt out of your limbs and fill the quiet with a boring movie you’ve seen a million times on TBS as you heat up dinner. There’s a pang of something when you remember that this take-out was supposed to be your meal together tonight, but it doesn’t last long and you write it off as hunger.

Because you remember that it’s not like you care.

You can hear them, always, behind you in the office, down the bar at Poor Richard’s, beside you in the elevator, across from you at meetings, at the table in front of you at lunch… so you start sitting with Toby in the break room instead of the kitchen, pick a different nightclub, settle in the furthest seat in the conference room, take the stairs and buy a pair of earphones that block out white noise. But you can still hear them. It’s completely ridiculous. They’re everywhere. But you can’t complain or switch jobs or move to the Bahamas because there’s nothing wrong. You’re fine. They’re fine. Everyone is so freaking fine it drives you crazy some days.

It’s not like you care, though, so it really isn’t an issue.

You catch them giggling at reception after five when they think no one’s there, and he puts his hand on her waist like it’s always belonged there. You nod as you walk out and sit for a while in your car after they leave, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel like you’re contemplating something and not out of plans to fix this.

Because there’s nothing to fix and you don’t care.

Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.