Saturday, I woke up with a nagging feeling deep in my throat, pitching an axe into the sides of my neck as it crawled, reaching for my uvula. It was a small reminder, a daunting one, to reach out to her. I had to contact that girl. As I walked through my room, from the mouth of my closet to the foot of my bed, I dialed her number and hit call. The beep signaling for a message rang through my ears. I filled the line with an empty tone.

I haven’t seen you in a while. I hope everything’s going well. Uh, I miss you…. Call me back, I want to catch up. Things haven’t been the same without you.
I hung up.
I sat on the edge of my crumpled sheets, legs resting on the birch bed frame. My toes slid from the end of my rug (it was so worn down by this point that frayed scraps of synthetic wool flailed around the edges) to the hardwood flooring extended towards my pale, trustworthy walls. Golden shards of sun fell in from the open window to my right, exposing all the dust and hair in the air. I rubbed my right palm with my left thumb, anxious. All the nerves in my body were jumping, bouncing and pulling, throwing everything they had out of my pores, out into the world. I lost them.
Slowly, one by one, I gained them back, crawling underneath my skin after each phone call she returned. The first was short; a quick conversation just to catch up. I missed the second, but I called back immediately. Another conversation wasted on simple nothings. After the fourth call, I got serious:
I need you. Why’d you have to go? Come back please.
She didn’t usually answer my calls after that, I felt like a bothersome little bug flying around her room. I landed on her windowsill and waited. I watched and listened, and this was all I could do.