TIME STILLS, or so it seems, as the sound of intermittent tapping fills the STAGNANT air around him; the pads of CALLOUSED thumbs striking lightly against the screen of his phone, the device the only source of light to be found within the DARKNESS of the room in which he sat--- atop his bed, legs crossed, spine slouched.
he isn’t sure why he does it, not anymore--- the number has been out of service for years ( she’s GONE; there’s NO ONE there ). and yet, he finds himself here once more, just as he does every now and then, fingers typing away, sending messages to no one.
( ✉ ➡ mom ) it’s been a while since i’ve last messaged you, hasn’t it? bet you thought i forgot about you, right?
( ✉ ➡ mom ) my injury’s recovered well... i’m playing again! i never got around to telling you that, did i? sorry, things have been pretty busy around here lately.
( ✉ ➡ mom ) sawamura’s been a handful as usual, but his control has slowly been improving. he’s also learned a new pitch. i think you’d really enjoy watching him on the mound.
( ✉ ➡ mom ) i wish you were here to watch me too. dad’s always so busy... he never has time to come to the games and even if he did, he wouldn’t enjoy them the way that you would. he’s never really been a baseball guy. but you already knew that, right? haha
( ✉ ➡ mom ) anyway, i’m rambling again... and it’s getting late anyway...
