April

The silence around me is numbing. It renders me helpless, a feeling I despise. So I try to battle this state I'm in by fidgeting in the kitchen. Useless chores, really. I rearrange the silverware in the drawer, check if the spice rack is in order, all while eyeing the coffee maker as if commanding it with my willpower to go quicker.

The silly thing rumbles, but in few seconds starts to spit coffee in the pot.

I sigh with relief because at this moment I'd even prefer the sound of an exploding grenade to the sickening silence of my kitchen. All my life I was surrounded by noise. Growing up on a farm, it was the crowing of our rooster, followed by various sounds other farm animals made. And my sisters were just as loud, as our animals, and obnoxious on top of that. College years were filled with roommates, so a few moments of silence here and there were a rare gift I knew how to cherish. Me staying at Meredith's was almost as if being in a nuthouse. But now, strangely, I kinda like it. I remember this time of my life with gratitude filling my soul.

And then there was Jackson…

We could be loud. In all the good and the bad ways a couple can be loud. But we could be quiet too. Although with him even the silence was alive, filled with words and feelings you didn't need to hear, but to simply take in. I loved our silence together just as much as our conversations, silly or deep.

My mind tries to picture what always came after, but I quickly scold myself.

"We don't go there, April," I order starkly and pour myself a cup of coffee.

The watery taste of it rubs me the wrong way, and I feel a wave of annoyance rise in me. Matthew insists on drinking filter since he dislikes the strong and bitter flavor of espresso. He also thinks that having two different coffee makers is completely indulgent, so I'm left with suppressing my wishes yet again.

I don't have it in me to prepare a healthy breakfast just for myself, so I settle for a toast with peanut butter and jelly. It's different when Harriet's around; I always go above and beyond and make not only something nutritious but also funny or silly looking. But today she's with Jackson, and I'm left to my own devices and bored out of my mind.

Matthew has a night shift at the clinic, which tends to happen more and more often lately. We used to have the same schedules, which was admittedly tiresome at times. Working together and living together is not an easy ride sometimes. But at least I got to see my husband. Now we are reduced to polite greetings and goodbyes at the door, as we pass each other by on our way to work or home. An occasional family dinner leaves me shying away from further conversations with him, rather than seeking them out.

I hear a familiar sound of an incoming message and look at the screen. Seeing who it's from makes my heart skip a beat.

RECEIVED: what the heck is a bunny in a pancake?

RECEIVED: good morning ;)

I let an involuntary giggle out, picturing his confused face and worry lines between his eyebrows. I start writing a reply, but accidentally elbow my cup, try to grab it, fail, and watch it break into million pieces on the floor. I rush to get the mop but stop in my tracks when I see him calling.

"Someone's got blood-hungry, as I see," he says with warmth in his voice. I can picture his smirk as if he's standing right in front of me.

"No idea what you mean," I answer, happiness all over me. Then I look at my screen and let out a chuckle.

SENT: cut its ears

"She said as she sliced open an innocent bunny at the kitchen counter," he adds, trying to sound accusingly and serious.

This time I don't control myself and let out a loud giggle that fills my kitchen with life. Suddenly I feel the need to move, I'm buzzing with excitement. I catch myself sauntering about the room, one arm pressed against my belly, fingertips soothing my side.

"Jackson!" I cry out, failing miserably at composing myself. "I didn't mean to send it just yet, but my cup had a little run-in with the floor."

"You okay? Did you hurt yourself?" he asked; his voice immediately serious and concerned.

I love him for that.

"Yeah, no, it's nothing," I assure him and change the subject. "So 'bout those pancakes… Did she ask for them nicely or demanded?"

"Lips pouted, arms crossed, angrily pleading eyes. I'd say the bunny pancakes are at the top of my agenda. Help your guy out here?"

I convince myself that it's just a funny turn of phrase and ignore the weakness in my limbs and my racing pulse.

We don't go there, April!

"You got to cut out the bunny ears from the pancake. But think more pelvic girdle-like rather than cranium-like. Harriet likes her bunnies full and fluffy."

"I like it when you talk doctor to me," he teases me, as I turn all shades of red.

Not sure how to respond in this instance, I choose to jokingly reprimand him, but before I even open my mouth, he chimes in again and lets out the most interested and academic-sounding "Huh" I've ever heard.

"I hate to break it to you, but the full and fluffy bunny our daughter is so infatuated with, in reality, is an average-sized elephant," he says solemnly and seriously.

The first moment I don't get what he's getting at, but upon picturing the shape of a pelvic girdle bone, the realization hits me and I laugh out loud the second time this morning. I'm so starved for light-hearted jokes and funny stories, human communication in general, that even the silliest of his puns proves effective on me.

"Long live the elephants then," I respond mirroring his tone.

"No, but in all seriousness though, you think she'll go for the elephant?" he asks uneasy, and I realize just how much of his soul he puts into making Harriet happy. I always knew he'd make a great dad, willing to do whatever it takes to keep our daughter safe. But it's the little, everyday things he spoils her with that warm my heart.

"Jackson," I say soothingly. "She'd go for everything because it's her daddy cooking for her. She idolizes you in ways you can't even comprehend."

I hear him let out a long sigh and clear his throat. He probably is a little embarrassed by the praise and tries not to show it. But I know that deep down he is pleased with my words.

"April, thank you, really."

"You're more than welcome, Jackson. Really."

I wait for him to say goodbye and hang up since he's the one who called with a question, but he does neither of these things. Instead silence sets in, but not the annoying one, no, the intriguing one. I hear faint sounds in the background: the inpatient taping of something plastic against the kitchen counter, probably Harriet demanding her juice, the working TV, and a cheesy ass song from a cartoon she likes so much.

I can't hear him, but with every fiber of my being, I feel him through the phone. He's there, thoughts rushing through his mind, unsure as to what to say next.

"So how's life treating you so far?" he asks quietly, and the tone of his voice says to me that it's not some small talk question you ask a person you don't care about. He really cares, about me, about my wellbeing.

It's his kindness towards me that gets me.

I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him about the silence of this house, suffocating me. About my job, although important and somewhat gratifying, still not interesting and not challenging at all. About my marriage, broken and tainted by failure, like everything I touch. About the fact that by leaving Grey Sloan I cut ties with so many close colleagues and friends, my whole support system, and it pains me to navigate my life without it. I want to tell him that at times I'm directionless, powerless, disoriented. I'm numb. I'm lost. And above all I'm tired.

I so desperately want to call out to him, tell him all these things. Friendship wise we're not so close, as we used to be, life kind of threw us apart. But I still consider him my favorite person, the one I could confide in at my hour of need.

However, he's also my ex-husband. And some of my troubles I'm reluctant to share, given our history. And besides, it's not his job to take care of me anymore. Piling all my pain on him would be unjust towards him. Even cruel.

And I never want to be cruel to him. He's my best friend. So I bottle all my emotions, put it in a box, and hide inside my soul. My ache is only mine to deal with.

So I gather my strength and try to sound as natural as possible. "I'm fine, Jackson. Life's fine."

He picks up on the change of my tone and chooses not to push this any further. I can't decide if I'm grateful or chewed up about it. We talk a bit more, filling each other in on any new developments in our lives, but not in a bare-our-souls-out-kind-of-way. With every second our conversation gets more and more courteous as if we were halfhearted acquaintances reuniting after a decade apart. It irks me the wrong way, and I slowly feel my trepidation creep into me.

When I say my good-bye, my voice sounds thin and cracking.

"See you later," Jackson replies, and adds mischievously: "Bunny-killer," and hangs up.

Yet again, the silence around me is stifling.