Excuse me for sending six texts in a span of ten minutes. I thought you weren’t notified by my first five, so I decided to send one more. Just for good measure, you know? Maybe I said something that wasn’t able to be replied to, so I thought I would  sent more messages so you’d be able to reply. At the root of my anxious and clingy methods, I adore talking with the likes of you.

What happened to those late night texts we used to share together during hot summer nights, where my eyes strained to keep awake and my cheeks hurt from all the smiling I did, and I knew fully well you were trying to keep awake like I was?  Now it’s a struggle to make you to utter more than five syllables. You say you’re busy, but your Facebook fills with activity every day. A cute baby husky here, four ways to make spaghetti there. My messages are left on read until anxiety kicks in and I decide to delete them, afraid of bothering you by being tempted to send more. That usually doesn’t last long and I message you again, thinking that me deleting the messages somehow reset the entire situation. I know I’m not much, but I deserve more than just “I’m busy.” You think you’re Superman and you put on glasses, telling me you’re Clark Kent and expect me to believe whatever you say.

There was a time when both our phones were flooded with each other’s messages. That was years back, and now things have changed. Yet, I still crave those moments with you, so I decided to try and recreate them. I never did welcome change, and would rather live in the past than the present. The “Hellos” and “How are yous” spill from me daily, while I await anxiously for your responses. They would range from hours to even days. You said you’ve been busy and apologize. Our last small talk continued on for about a week, with me always being a pest and asking how you were while you always apologized for being too busy to reply. Eventually, everything just stopped.

It’s probably just me. I’m just overreacting  we’re still as close as we used to be. Maybe you miss talking with me as much as I do with you and you truly are busy.  It’s hard to even write about such a topic without coming out as whiny. I’m not much, but I’m better than nothing- which, by the way, is what you’ve been giving me. n. I give myself a few months, maybe a year. Or should I say, I give you that much time. Before I attempt to try to talk with you again. Maybe this time it’ll be different.  I’ll wait. I’ll wait for however long it takes, and when you do reply with your one word answers of “Okay.” and “Lols.” I will smile. Smile a sad, little simple smile that I know very well will fade away quicker than it came.

I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to speak to you, knowing fully well that there’s a 99.97% chance you won’t reply back. ‘ll probably still try to speak with you eventually. I’ll always continue flailing around in the pool. “Marco. Marco! Marco?” Silence. You aren’t Polo. You never were.

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