gasping for air

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Me too.”

We waited — for the slightest hesitation, the softest protest, the inevitable retraction. They never came. Instead, the silence grew viscous, like molasses, and at last, with nothing left to say, we hung up the phone.

I sat in stillness for a long time after. For an autumn night in Los Angeles, it was chilly, and I felt alone. The hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic ticking of the clock, our time racing toward oblivion.

It made me wonder how things that take years to build can crumble in seconds, how something once sturdy can atrophy into debris. No one sees it coming. You simply find yourself knee-deep in water, on a sinking ship in the North Atlantic Ocean.

For me, just a 24-minute phone call, and I was drowning.


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