How
many times had he taken this for granted? The always constant signal, the
instant nature of knowledge and conversation—a world and lifestyle he had been
born into. His whole life, he had used it without question, never noticing how
much he needed it until it wasn’t there.
He called
her over and over and over:
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Try
again later.
(But without
words now, there wouldn’t be a later.)
Layers
of cement separated them, strangling the connection in more ways than one. They
had said goodbye before dusk, she had left before dawn. It was easier. But too
late, he had changed his mind. So now he ran, phone glued to his ear.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Try
again.
(And
again, and again.)
He
reached the platform as the train picked up speed. He could see her clearly,
focused on her own screen, looking up just in time for eye contact before
vanishing into the shrouded tunnel.
Maps
are only useful if you know your destination; they had never discussed where
she was going, only that she was leaving. Still he stumbled, breathless, to the
routes plastered on the wall. He didn’t know what he needed; a sign, a clue, a
hint.
What he
needed, in the end, is what he got—a stop, circled crudely on the glass with
marker, accompanied by her handwriting:
FIND ME.
So he did.
