The Conversation

We haven't spoken in two months. Certainly, I wanted some time to myself. A long-distance relationship is merely a cellular commitment and I didn't know if it could last the way my minutes miraculously had. The distance is romantic in concept, in movies, but in practice, every mile intensified the dull ache in my chest. I wanted to ache with purpose. With the knowledge that I was investing my time in something that wouldn't lose its value. I guess I have yet to fully accept that making mistakes is sometimes inevitable.

And at the same time, I blamed you for holding me back merely by existing. How could anyone compare? So unlike anyone I've ever known, and so much like myself. But alas, I concede. I am the guilty party in some regards. I squandered opportunities without your help. I stopped seeking others because I thought you were enough.

I didn't get a chance to recite my rehearsed lines requesting a hiatus before things ended abruptly and, appropriately, online. What began on AIM ceased to be via Facebook. (If there's anything I'd like to apologize for, it's maintaining a digital means of communication.) Thousands and thousands of pixels, but the few words that I wrote, words that occupied so little of the screen, translated to "What's next?" on my screen and "Who's next?" on yours.

The mannerisms, the gestures, the meaningful glances got lost in the airwaves and the only tangible evidence we had of one another was the name on the screen. I thought it was a lifeline. But it's lifeless. And still, I can't bring myself to delete your number. To sever that line completely.