Touya hadn’t meant to miss the call, hadn’t meant to make you listen to his voicemail box one, two, three times.
Hadn’t meant to make you cry to a silent line.
But when he finally has time to click that voicemail, your sobs crackling through the speaker, he doesn’t let it finish after that first broken I need you.
It doesn’t matter that you haven’t talked in 6 months, doesn’t matter that he’s celebrating a great ride, doesn’t matter that he’s had a couple beers.
What matters is that you’re not picking up, one, two, three calls later.
Doesn’t matter that he’s tearing down the dark road way faster than he should, phone on speaker on his dash and fist beating the steering wheel so hard he’s sure it’ll bruise.
What matters is the one, two, three, four voicemails he leaves telling you he’ll be there in four, three, two minutes.
What matters is the one, two minutes he spends banging on your door before remembering he never returned your key, leaving it open when he tears it wide and rushes in.
The two, three, four leaps it takes to get up your stairs hardly register to him.
All that matters is the sight of you, just you, lying on the bathroom floor, crying so hard that it shakes your whole body.
Because it doesn’t matter if it takes one, two, three, four hours… he’ll be there until it stops.
