Every second Wednesday of the month, I wait for your call. I know it will never come, but isn’t the lie better? Sometimes, I hear the pitter-patter of your flip-flops. For a second, I let myself believe you’re still there, just in the other room. Everyone swears they’ve moved on, but I know better. We act like your space does not exist. Like the silence you left behind is just another room in the house. We’re all playing pretend, I’m just the only one still holding the phone. So every second Wednesday of the month I lie awake waiting.