It was hard not to consider where you were at that moment, what you would have been doing. When we call someone, we’re inevitably poking our noses unexpectedly into a life that is very much in the process of being lived. They’re out at a bar, they’re having a serious conversation, they’re watching a movie. There is something going on that you are now interrupting, and though it’s not a crime to tap them on the shoulder, the moment you walk into changes everything about the conversation. I thought of how embarrassed I would be if you had picked up with sharp, shouted bar talk filling the room behind you. If you were surrounded by friends, by opportunity, by everything that I didn’t want to think about — how would I talk to you? You telling me, “I can’t hear you, can you speak up?” with your friends laughing in the background, and me doing what? Telling you I’d call you later? That couldn’t be the context of my call.
Why am I calling? I’m calling because, though the inevitable silence following your “Hello?” that necessitates a breathless explanation on my part makes my palms sweat and stomach turn, not calling is no longer an option. The percentage of my days spent thinking about what would happen if I spoke to you, if I reached out, if I said something, now greatly eclipses the time spent where you don’t cross my mind. What was once an itch at the back of my brain, an amusing what-if that was never supposed to be acknowledged, is now an all-consuming need to confirm that, regardless of what direction life has taken you in, you are still familiar of the path that led you there. You know, the one that included us, together, as something that we cannot smother with the passage of time. I guess calling you to say hello, to even confirm that you still exist with that same voice and the “hmm” I can hear when you smile through your words, is more necessary than it is uncomfortable.