Their name is in your phone and you’ve opened it twice this week without pressing anything. Once in the car outside the shop, once at eleven at night with the lamp still on. There’s a note about it somewhere too, four words in your own handwriting, from a Tuesday you no longer remember.
You’re going to call. You’ve been going to call since March.
The loop you’re actually in
A random Monday goes like this.
You think about calling. Something pulls you sideways before you pick up the phone, and it’s never anything dramatic, it’s the dishwasher or a work message or the fact that you should probably eat something first. An hour goes past. You remember, and something drops in your stomach, because you meant to and you didn’t.
By Thursday it sits heavier. Not because anything happened, but because you’ve added another day of meaning to. You start to feel like somebody who doesn’t call their friends, and that’s a worse thing to be than somebody who forgot, so the next time the thought arrives it brings the whole verdict with it. Bad friend. Seven months. What’s wrong with you.
