You called me three times last night. I have my Do Not Disturb setting on when I sleep. I didn't hear the first two calls. But the third time you called, my phone let me know. Shaking me awake. Almost as if the technology itself felt bad for you. "Hey, this guy has tried calling you twice already. At 1:44am and 1:55am. It's 1:58am and he's calling again. You might want to answer." But I didn't. I stared at your name on the screen, I stared at the numbers that have been showing up on my phone since I was 17 years old. I stared at them and I was so sad. So devastatingly sad that I couldn't answer and hear your voice. Drunk and sleepy as I'm sure it would have sounded. I love your voice. A bit nasally, a bit thick, deep, and always as though you're right on the edge of barking out a laugh. I imagined that I would answer, "hi," and you would say "hi," back. And then you'd say my name. And I would say your name. Which is a thing we do a lot. Saying each other's names when other words aren't enough. When you say my name, I know what you mean. When I say your name, you know I'm saying everything you've ever wanted to hear. Then you would tell me to leave him. "Run away with me," I can hear your voice say. "I have money, we can leave town. We can go where no one knows our story. Where no one will think we're terrible people. Where you're not the girl who left her husband for her high school boyfriend and I'm not the guy who stole you away." I would take a deep breath and I would be silent for a long time because I'm imagining that life. But I would have to be the one to speak sense because I'm not the one that's drunk so I would say, "you know we can't do that." And you would say, "I know, but I wish we could." And I would agree. "You can't call me anymore," I would tell you. "My husband is sleeping in another room for now but eventually he'll be back in my bed and if he sees you calling, it really might be the end." I would hear a quiet sniffle on the other end of the line and I would know you're crying, like you did the other night. I know you won't tell me this when you're sober, but you're afraid you'll never love someone else like you love me. And I understand that fear because I think it's true. I don't think there is another person on this earth that I can love like I love you either. And it breaks me apart to think that we'll never get a chance, in this lifetime, to see all that our love is really capable of. Maybe we would be a supernova for a split second of brilliance and then burn out to nothingness, destroying everything around us, but at least we would have tried. Or maybe we would be a steady blaze for the rest of time. We'll never know. And that's what destroys me most. We'll never know. Nor will I ever know why you actually called three times last night. Because in the end, I have to choose him. I have to choose my family. And I hope that you can understand.
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