hoping

Dear Nick,

It’s been 17 days. God, I hope you’re mad at me for some reason that we can resolve, and not that you are so sick you can’t call. Please, God, please. Let him be okay and really pissed at me. I’d rather him be mad than ill.

Each day I don’t talk to you, my heart feels an increase of this paradox of more emptiness and more heaviness. I listen to the messages I have saved on my phone, just to hear your voice. The second message, you end with, “I miss you, I love you.” I love you too, Nick.

Love,
Holly