"You used to call me when you're sober." She said, the night breezes whistle almost being enough to drown it out.
He arched a brow, unsure of where she was going with this. Then again, he can't quite recall where it came from.
He never could.
"Just to catch up during the day," she continued, shrugging, "or to ask how my dreams were coming along."
'Good' and 'great' is what she'd say instead. 'Alright' and 'fine' is what he'd say.
They didn't always communicate well, did they?
The man was silent, finding himself consumed by the very girl whose place was no longer in his future, but his past.
Where he left her, after a night that the universe had destined for them.
They always ignored her warning signs.
"I'll be honest, I could never say out loud that one of them died when you left." She took a breath, almost as if to cut herself off before she gave away too much. too much. "But in the silence that came after the questions...I thought that maybe I could be your dream that got away, too, and maybe you couldn't admit it either. We were always more alike than you thought."
Maybe that's why he couldn't love her more.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
"But when the line went dead," a shaky breath from her lips, "then came alive a few weeks later in the dead of night. Then again after a couple more sunsets. And again, and again," again, again, again. "I realized that now, you only call when you can't see who you're dialing."
YOU ARE READING
excerpt of a book i'll never write
Short Storypages full of: what if? almost. what could have been. what happened. imagination. brutal reality. heartbreak. torn pieces. tape and glue for those pieces. shy smiles. and you. **updates randomly
