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There's soft light. Everywhere. The delicate touch of amber warmth surrounds me, caresses me, whispers gently attempting to quiet my thoughts. The television mutters in the background.
“You could be on your way over now,” I softly choke out.
“Yes,” he responded, emotionless.
We lived in a constant state of separation with no end in sight. There was no point anymore in telling him that I was crying, or that I felt sick with nerves, or that for fucks sake I need a cigarette to replace you. What is the point in endlessly repeating the obvious? None. So I did not tell him that tears were sliding down my cheeks, and he did not tell me to order my tears to a stop, for what was the point?
“I'm sad,” was all I could say.
“Me too.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, honey.”
That was that. I turned to lay on my left side, and propped the cellphone on my right ear. The quilt on my bed felt scratchy against my wet cheek. I had already spent too much time feeling sad. I curved my body and held out my arms as if I was hugging the still air, reaching out to him over miles, and maybe perhaps he was doing the same, laying in bed with his arms stretched out to hold me.