The Ghosts

And, suddenly, we're back where we began: on the phone, after the rest of the world has gone to sleep, talking out the problems of our days. Well, your day primarily, but that isn't anything out of the ordinary.

In the course of four days, you've seeped back into my everyday, your emails piling up in my inbox, your messages on my voicemail. I've heard more from you in the past three days than I've heard from you in three years since you and I were no longer you and I. As I attempt to parse your problems into manageable questions leading to an ultimate conclusion, it strikes me as funny that your current relationship problems are our past relationship problems. Is that why you called? Because I have first hand experience?

When I told you I wanted to be friends, I meant it. I called. I emailed. I didn't hear back from you, so I'm adrift in a tumultuous sea as we engage in the witty banter: simultaneously, I'm ecstatic to hear the familiar timbre of your voice while drowning in how angry I am with you for never returning my = occasional phone call, never responding to an email with more than one line. I don't want to admit how much you hurt me, how much it still hurts, and, as such, will continue to believe my high pain tolerance to be strength.