I was busy watching the lone episode of American Idol I have ever seen in an attempt to be social and make the most of my visit. It was not until I excused myself and lay upon the lonely bottom bunk of a bed somewhere in Brooklyn that I realized I’d missed your call. “Hi. It’s me,” the message proclaimed. I will never forget your tone. Half laughing, half worried. “We’re, ah, leaving first thing in the morning. So, if, ah, I don’t talk to you, have a good rest of your break.”
I desperately wanted to tell you about my day and worried I wouldn’t have access to your voice for well over a week. I saved the message, knowing that I could always return to it. I dialed your number, hoping that you were still awake. Part of me objected to the digits I touched upon the keypad–for I so wanted to be independent. To not need you. Even if I was alone. And in Brooklyn. You were never a part of this life, and as much as I missed you, were you a part of it now?