He still answers.
But there’s something in the way.
There’s always something in the way.
The texts thin out.
I send more than I get.
I know I do because I know the exact ratio.
I know it exactly.
Three texts to his one.
Then four.
Then sometimes I send something and he reads it instantly, but the response doesn't come until the next day.
Or doesn't come at all.
I leave a voice memo one night.
Hey. I know you're tired. I know school is a lot right now. I'm not trying to pressure you. I just miss you and wanted to hear my own voice say it, I guess. Okay. Goodnight.
The next day I find myself checking my phone between every class.
During class.
In the bathroom.
During meals I don't finish.
He doesn't respond.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TWENTY YEARS OLD
• • •
Sophomore year starts the way junior year of high school ended.
With me doing math I don’t want to do.
I know this pattern.
I’ve lived inside this pattern.
I have the scar tissue to prove it.
The difference is this time I’m twenty years old and eight hundred miles away and I feel so alone.
No driveway to sit on in the dark.
No way to just show up and make him remember I exist.
So I call.
