And so it fell.
The last scab.
Scraped off by that impersonal message on Whatsapp. An app you claim to barely use. Because you don’t like to type.
And so I called a couple of times and they went unanswered.
I texted a few times… ranted even. Hoping you would see my message and respond, with an emoticon at least.
I started to feel really bad. Especially about how fucked up it was when I found out more than a month later that your grandmotherhad passed away. I had spoken with a common friend for a while and even he didn’t mention it. I fought back tears through meetings that day. I cried for you. And for her. And for what we had so obviously lost. I trembled as I dialed your number. Hoping that yet again you would not answer.
Except for this flash… I know nothing about you. Nothing about your life for the past year. Nothing about any change in your eyes, your smile, your face.
I texted again. The last time, I promised myself. I wasn’t surprised to see banter in the comments section on posts on Facebook. I wasn’t surprised that you did not reply.
I was however caught absolutely unawares when I did get a message. A broadcast, probably. Impersonal. From you, about you, asking for inputs on a newly launched website. I feel happy for you that you finally did it. I know you will be successful. I feel that in the time that has passed you have made close friends that will help and support you with your quest. Much like I did the first few times. I know that you have enough people that you are close to to help you.