Across the Computer Screen

There’s a slight, impatient click to my tongue as I lay flat on my stomach in my bed that molds to my body after so many similar nights. All waiting at three am in the one lit bedroom of my apartment, surrendered by the inky blackness of the night and the obnoxious hoo-ing of owls.

I try not to let the growing knots in my stomach completely turn me into a pretzel. It‘s crazy really. That something that this can generate so much anxiety like electricity in a thunderstorm. All I’m doing is staring at a little red dot. Like. A. Cat.

A stupid cat, maybe.

I groan, and flop over to my back as I consider just closing the laptop and turning off the red might. But, I can’t—because it’s my only connection to you.

When you moved, it feels like you died and left a ghost of you behind. It feels like I’m desperately trying to bring you back to life every time I turn the computer on at three am. I need to let go—I know that—because you moved on. That’s why I’m bending to your schedule and going into work late tomorrow with eye bags as dark as the night.

But then, that red light turns green and I forget every reason I ever doubted you.