wake up to a terrible dream.
each set of hours becomes changed and remembered for unique reasons, handing you new reasons to turn to that exact page last year, rumpled and fading. we grow more tired, me and mine, of dreaming rather than living, of talking rather than changing. the task requires more than just time, but energy and hope. i think i've spent my savings for life.
i was up until four that night, waiting for him to make that call, that he was home from work, that he was willing to stay up for two more hours to talk, that he was safe in bed and thinking of me. every night, he called me, home from work.
i called and called.
eventually, his roommate picked up. he wasn't home yet.
two three four in the morning, and i tried to let those thoughts of worry exhale with me. i've always been paranoid.
i drifted off to sleep, uncomfortable, at about five.
my phone rang at quarter to seven. i didn't recognize the number, but i thought it was him.
"lindsay, i need you to wake up."
it was never him again.
