After days, weeks, even, of leaving him alone as he requested, I called him. Only to discover that he no longer lived there. The kind soul who answered the phone explained to me what happened. Essentially, he went out (that's jargon for he relapsed into using drugs). No one had any idea where he ended up. I tried putting on my best face forward. It worked, I thought. Only, later they could here me, sobbing in the bath. On those rare occaisions when they overran me, I liked to save up my tears for the bath/shower; I preferred hiding my vulnerability under a veneer of frozen-ness. I found out on a Friday ... and did not hear from him until the following Monday lunchtime. The moment I picked up the phone and heard his voice, I knew everything would be alright.
image credit: pedantic-romantic
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