We used to talk all day. I would text you “good morning!” And you would reply. Near lunch, we’d talk again, sometimes on the phone if our days were going slowly. Back at home, we talked again. First, apart, and then together once we got our apartment. All day long - I looked forward to talking with you. Hearing of your day, your thoughts. Until they started mentioning other people. “I couldn’t believe how gorgeous she was, and she sat next to me!” You said one day, and I wondered why. I had eyes only for you. I started to not look forward to hearing what you had to tell me about your day, especially after work, and grew even more distant when you stopped replying to the good morning texts. And then, of course, we stopped talking completely, and if I saw you in the grocery store today I think we might stop at “hi.”

It hurts. Sometimes, I wish there was a phone booth, lit even at night, that I could ring the old you on. A line to connect me to who you used to be when you loved me.