It’s been nine days.

Nine days since I last heard your voice.

You said you’d call me on Sunday. Well, Sunday came and went. Twice. I’m not the girl that sits waiting by the telephone for a guy to call, but now I can relate. It’s draining. Waiting for you takes forever.

I don’t understand it. I really, really don’t.

I liked you. Maybe I liked you too much. Heck, my voice changed when I talked about you. It would get a little higher and airy, because the air was coming from my stomach. Like a sigh.

Don’t ignore me. Please. I don’t want you to ignore me.

My imagination has run away with me. Sometimes I’ll almost convince myself you were in a car accident on St. Patrick’s Day weekend, with all those drunk drivers out there. That you’re lying in a hospital bed somewhere, doped up on morphine and unable to call.

I’d never want something that horrible to happen to you, but at least I’d know you weren’t avoiding me.

Avoiding me is childish, anyway.

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