Last time he called it was evening, and it was raining. The roar of the downpour and the leaden tone of that heavy sky had put a pall over the entire town. Just then, in the midst of all that, it occurred to me how extremely important his phone call was. I realized that nothing but that single line connected me to the outside world.

Then he'd start going on about when and where we should meet, and suddenly I'd be irritated. Look, skip this stuff. Just say it again, that line I like so much: “Perhaps you were sleeping?” Encore! I'd pretend to pound my feet on the floor as I scribbled out a note to myself. Yes, that's fine. Yes, I'll be there.

If someone could give me some sort of evidence that what we're doing here is really love, I'd be so tremendously relieved that I'd probably kneel down at that person's feet. And if it isn't love, if it's eventually going to end, I want to go on sleeping like this; I want to stop hearing the phone when he calls. Let me be alone again.

I spent the summer feeling like that, exhausted by my anxiety.

A year and a half had passed since we'd met.

“A friend of mine has died.”

Two months had gone by and I still hadn't managed to say this. I knew he'd listen if I told him, really listen, so why did I keep holding back? Why? I didn't know.

Every night the thought plagued me.

Should I tell him? Should I start telling him right now?

I tried to find the words as we walked.

A friend of mine has died. I don't think you ever met her.