This seemed to throw off his rhythm. It put a halt to his listing.
Who?
The missing girl in the picture.
I wrote again:
The one who isn’t there.
Now his rhythm was definitely off. The streaming sentences of description came to a stop, and the screenremained unchanged. I wondered for a moment if I’d shut it down completely, but another reply came eventually.
I wish sometimes I could pretend again.
Pretend what?
That I’m him. It was easier that way. Easier than being me. And maybe you’d be happier.
It’s not the right kind of happiness.
A few seconds passed. Then he responded:
I was hoping I’d know him completely after coming here. That I would get all the answers and it would all finally make sense.
He wrote again:
I thought I would solve the mystery. But there aren’t any real clues here. Just airplanes.
I leaned my head against the armrest of the couch. It was hard against my neck. I wrote without thinking much.I just let the words unfold from my fingertips.
We’re not going to plan a funeral here, are we?
No.
I could feel my palms starting to sweat.
I have an idea that I can’t get out of my head. I don’t even want to say it.
His response came quickly.
Say it.
You already know what it is, don’t you?
I think I do.
But it’s crazy, right? It’s not going to happen.
Why not?
There was a pause as I collected my thoughts for a moment.
If we’re on the same page here, and I’m not sure that we are, I don’t know what to tell my dad. How will we convince him?
It seemed like a long time before his next message arrived, but it was probably only twenty seconds or so.
I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t.
My head was starting to feel light.
