Hey.
It's me, I'm sorry, I just
can't do this anymore.
November 29th, frozen quiet again.
Same gray hoodie,
same cracked phone in his hand.
He sits on the floor where the carpet still smells like her perfume.
Charges it to a hundred,
then kills every light in the room.
Thumb finds a save file like he knows the way home.
One minute,
forty-three seconds of her voice made of stone.
He presses play volume low like he's scared someone will hear.
The only day of the year he lets himself drown in her tears.
She says, please don't hate me.
He miles it along.
Every syllable perfect,
he's known it so long.
Play it again,
play it again,
till the battery's red and the silence creeps in.
Play it again,
play it again,
let the breakup outlive the love that we had one more time.
So we can feel her leave on the anniversary
of the day she stopped being here.
Play it again,
till the screen goes black and the ghosts go to sleep.
He counts the pauses,
the cracks in her throat.
The way she said I love you right before,
but I won't.
He knows when she sniffles that old Fenty
7. The goodbye trembles at 141 exactly.
Some years he whispers don't grow into the dark.
Some years he just nods like he's proud of her courage to pop.
Either way the phone dies before the sun ever climbs.
He plugs it in, waits another 364 nights.
He wonders if she
knows that somewhere there's a boy who still
pays a bill on a dead phone just to keep her.
Play it again,
play it again,
let the final person feel like her hand in his.
Play it again,
play it again,
till the room goes quiet and the pain thins one last time.
So we can feel her leave on the
anniversary of the day she set him free.
Play it again,
till the battery dies and he finally closes his eyes.
Oh,
and he finally closes his eyes.
The message has been saved for one.
Oh, 95 days.
Zero percent.
Good night.