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.