She practiced the call in
the hallway mirror.
Not the words — she had
those — but the way her
mouth would land on each
syllable after hours of
silence.
By the time she picked
up the phone, the
conversation was already a
memory. She could feel
the pauses she had not
yet made, the soft laugh
she might not produce,
the apology she had
rewritten so many times
it no longer remembered
who started it.
When the line rang, she
set it back down.
Not because she had
nothing to say. Because
the version of her that
would have said it could
not agree with the
version that had finally
stopped waiting.