A Thousand Tiny Wishes // Ed Sheeran

Chapter Eight - Closure

Madison:

The last time I heard from Ed he told me he missed me, and though he always responded to my messages, I never got a reply the following morning when I said I missed him back. After a few hours with no answer from him, I brushed it off and carried on with my day at school.

But every hour, in every class, I checked my phone for any reply from Ed, but one never came. After a week, I lost sleep over him, going back through our messages over and over to look for some kind of clue that would lead me to the answer I might have been avoiding. I'd called him close to once an hour and each time his voicemail picked up without even a first ring.

I did everything in my power to track him down or find out if he was alright. I'd dialed his home number in my search for answers and though the first couple times no one had ever picked up, I kept at it, punching the keys and hoping to hear his voice on the other end. Ten full days passed, but I couldn't find it in me to just give up.

For the handful of times I'd dialed the number and didn't receive an answer, I wouldn't have known what to expect or what to say when someone did finally pick up. With the phone in my hand on that eleventh day, I promised myself it would be the last time.

Two rings, and then three, and in the middle of the fourth a click made my heart pause in my chest when a male voice came through.

To my disappointment, it wasn't Ed, but his father, and as relieved as I'd been to hear a voice on the other side, a flood of anger and resentment poured through my veins. For the times Ed shared his darkest secrets with me and for all the bruises I'd witnessed on his pale skin, I wanted to explode and vent every bit of anger into the phone, but deep down I knew it would draw him away and prevent me from finding the answers I needed.

"He left," was all he said when I asked if he'd known where Ed had gone.

My mouth hung parted while I waited for him to continue or tell me something I wanted to hear, but he just kept silent, his breath lingering against my ear.

"How can you just accept that?" I spat, my heart racing in my throat. "He's your son. How do you know he's not hurt? Don't you even care?"

My questions went unanswered when he hung up. I threw the phone against my bed and let out the pent up anger in an audible shout from low in my throat. It felt as if I'd hit a brick wall, almost as if it was Ed's way of telling me to move on and just put what he had, or what I thought we had, behind me.

Still with a little bit of hope I sent him a message the next morning. It wasn't a plea or request for reconciliation. I didn't vent through words on the screen or tell him something I might regret. Instead of any of that, I told him I loved him, my chin trembling with each word and vision distorted by the time I hit send.

Moving on was hard. I kept the necklace he made for me around my neck as a constant reminder of not only him, but us. It stung each time I looked down and the little misshapen heart pendant was there against my chest, dangling empty and lonely. I took the stone in my palm and closed my eyes, seeing his vibrant blue irises with streaks of orange hair falling in them the way I'd grown so accustomed to.

With the figurative flip of a switch, he wasn't familiar to me anymore. I missed the sound of his voice and the way his eyes would complement his wide grin, those spacey teeth showing when he smiled. I missed the freckles on his skin and the birthmark by his eye and even that snowflake-shaped scar etched into his bottom lip. I missed our late night chats and talking him into going to class when it was obvious that he wouldn't.

Two weeks after I hadn't heard from him I didn't feel sad anymore. I tucked the necklace away in an old tattered shoe box and with the seal of the lid what we had was left to collect dust in the dark behind my closet doors.