I even checked the oven. “They’re nowhere,” I tell him. “Either they’re outside, or someone stole them.”

So, we check outside. Twice. No dice — Well, actually, they’re keys. Luckily, Reid has an extra set for his car, and I have the second set for his house, so we aren’t barred from home and transport. The problem remains, however, that someone else might now have access, too.

We are about to hit the hay when his mom advises that we might want to bring his vehicle registration inside— just in case. Since Reid has work early tomorrow, and I’m not doing much these days besides waiting for grad school to start, we assign me the unenviable task. I lazily cover up my pajama ensemble with a sweatshirt and head downstairs, Reid’s phone in hand. We are in his new apartment and still sans WiFi, so he needs my phone’s hotspot to ASMR himself into a soundless slumber. I swap mine for his in case I need to call.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time looking for his car, briefly deciding that someone has stolen it. Then, I hit the unlock button with the extra key and his headlights shout back, “Polo!” Nope, turns out my visual-spatial memory is just showing off its mediocrity again. I find the car registration with ease, heading back to the apartment with my small victory.

It had been a perfect day before losing those keys. Reid and I reunited after a long weekend with our respective friends. We napped, made love, went out for mouth-watering Indian, and generally enjoyed each other’s company.

But then The Case of the Missing Keys arose, and the voice in my head took the misfortune as an opportunity to lunge for my jugular. “Don’t you just want to check?” she taunted.

“Reid told me they only spoke to each other briefly this weekend to clear the air,” I shot back.

“But still, why don’t you just make sure nothing else happened? It couldn’t hurt.”

I hate this voice. She always shows up right as things are getting good, and always, I let her fuck it all up. “Ugh. Fine, a quick peek.”

I unlock Reid’s phone, open his texts, and scroll to her name. I read one, then another, and another. My mind spins. This girl is trying to seduce him, and he lied to me about only really talking to her once. She’s going to keep texting him, and it won’t take long before he sees the err of his romantic ways.

I’ve never met this girl, but, clearly, she’s better than I am. She’s skinnier, she shares his passions, and she seems effortlessly cool. And me? I’m a fat, boring bundle of anxiety and self-doubt. Who the hell wants that?

I barge into the apartment with unhidden anger. He asks. I explain. He’s calm, always calm. Still, I hurl mean things; I punch low-blows. He explains that the text preceded the one longer conversation they had. He didn’t lie. “Why don’t you trust me?” “Yes, I love you, not her.” “Even if she did like me, I’m with you, so who cares?”

I apologize one hundred times, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. He goes to sleep; I stay up wondering why that voice thinks she can waltz right into my head all the time like she owns the place.

Reid and I wake up to his alarm, and I apologize some more. He is visibly tired. I kept him up with my emotional rouse.

I get up to hug and kiss him goodbye and to lock the door behind him. Then, I dive back into bed, wanting to call him and cry about my remorse. Instead, I send a text after quadruple checking that it doesn’t sound too neurotic.

I finally jump back up, tired of being sorry. Nobody wants your apologies, I say to myself. I just need to be better. For myself. For Reid. For my friends and family. I need to focus on self-love by doing what I love and by staying away from thoughts and things that make me unhappy, starting right now.

It’s settled, then. I start by putting on my running gear, forcing myself to do something that always makes me feel better. “You hate running in the morning,” she whines. “Not this morning,” I retort. “It’s raining,” she pleads. “Builds character,” I inform. I look at my reflection and tell her she’s beautiful and strong until it doesn’t sound ridiculous anymore.

It’s barely sprinkling, the bright side reports. I walk to the start of the park where I’ll run, queuing up unbridled, happy tunes. The scene before me is one Monet would have loved to paint. A tiny rabbit here; geese floating peacefully there with a gray sky backdrop and little drips that piddle on the marsh where they live with aquatic grasses.

I don’t run as far as I’d like. The cable guy is here early to install our WiFi. That’s ok, I tell myself, I ran and that’s what matters. The rain grows heavier as I head home, and I feel lucky that I will miss the worst of it.

While waiting for the WiFi guy to arrive, I glance at my ankles to find them covered in dirt. I want to shower, but I’ll have to wait until the WiFi guy leaves. No problem, I tell myself, keeping with the positive. I’ll just wash off my ankles for now.

I pull back the shower curtain and exhale with a smile. I feel immense satisfaction in their jangle, their weight that spills from one side of my hand to the other like a slinky as I lift them.

“If you had just pulled back the shower curtain last night, you would have found the keys. This whole fight could have been avoided, you know.”

“Oh, shut up, you,” I laugh, watching the dirt drift down the drain.