Lisa
I'm still morose even after work, a condition made much worse by a phone call from Irene. I don't answer. What would I say to her? After my phone beeps, I tentatively listen to her voicemail message.
"Hey, Lisa. I'm not sure what's going on with you right now but, to be honest, it has me a little worried. You blew me off all of a sudden. You never called me back like you said you would, and now it seems like you're avoiding my calls. What's going on? I was just calling to see what you're up to. I miss you. You can call me back tonight... it doesn't matter how late. Hopefully I'll talk to you soon?" Her last statement sounds more like a question. The message ends just as I hit delete.
I actually feel honest-to-goodness nauseated after listening to her message. My stomach churns and my mouth waters in that unpleasant way. I don't know what's come over me - is it really possible to become emotionally sick?
I lay down on my couch, fighting wave after wave of nausea, a light sheen of sweat building on my forehead, and the prospect of calling Irene back doesn't even cross my mind. I don't think I could manage it even if it's what I wanted. A few minutes pass and the sickness eventually subsides. It crosses my mind that I may have eaten something disagreeable, but I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this isn't true.
I stay that way for a long time. The soft hum of the TV lulls me, and I allow my mind to roam, to consider Jennie and Kai and Rosé and Chanyeol - all the people inadvertently involved in a bet that never should have happened. I don't eat dinner. I'm not hungry.
I don't know what time it is when I pull myself up the stairs. It's dark outside, but has been since I first collapsed onto the couch. I have my phone clasped firmly in my hand.
I sit on the bed and run my hands through my hair in exasperation. Then I rest my face in my hands, my elbows on my knees, and I continue to think. And I yearn. I yearn and I yearn and I yearn until it just doesn't seem possible to yearn anymore.
I yearn for her voice. I yearn to tell her goodnight. Without further consideration, I pick up the phone and dial her number.
She answers on the fourth ring. Her voice is thick with sleep, and I worriedly glance at the clock illuminated on my bedside table. It's nine forty-seven.
"Hey beautiful," I greet her. "Did I call at a bad time?"
It sounds as if she's shifting around a bit. Then she hums. "No, I was just watching TV."
Those six simple words, when said by her voice, calm me. They make my entire day seem just a little less shitty. They make my previous bout of nausea seem like a distant and forgotten thing, as if the sound of her voice has the power to heal.
And in a way, it does.
