She’s got him. He has her. I have you, but you’re not here, so tonight I have the MacBook, a 17-inch heating pad on my lap, angled so they can see. I miss you so much.
The lights are off so they can’t see my heart aching out of my chest. I pretend not to notice their fingers curling around one another, but they’re not hiding it. Earlier I joked that he would be the third wheel if he joined she and I tonight—the joke’s on me.
Before they came over, I had to lie under a blanket for half an hour to remember I knew how to breathe on my own. I resisted the urge to call you just to ask what you’d say if I told you I need you. Then I called anyway, relieved when you didn’t answer.
We are fifteen minutes into the movie when you call to say goodnight. When we hang up, I am blushing and unable to hide it. The ninety minutes passes without the weight of loneliness in my chest. I am grateful for this, and for you.