#22, Nothing's Wrong.

A short short piece about nothing.

Nothing’s wrong.

I just called to talk. About nothing and everything, and how things used to be. about the sweltering weather and ice cream flavors. about drama and drama series, of that one b***h you always loved to hate.

Nothing’s wrong, really. I just missed you and your voice and the conversations we would have.

Killing time like it was nothing, as if time wasn’t killing us.
Laughing so freely, speaking in loud hushed whispers about the most mundane of things and we had thought they were insanely hilarious.

We’ve must have been crazy, huh?

...it, no, they have all gone by now, haven’t they? They’re all gone so far away, like memories from another life. Of things in a distant, untouchable land, gone, like nothing.

Almost like there was nothing to begin with.
... like it meant nothing.

... and I guess that’s what I’m getting at. This ‘nothing’ just seems wrong.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’
waiting, enduring, living on these saturated figments of memory. maybe now, really I am the only one left who remembers. all the colours, the images, the sounds of a yesterday faraway. it’s hauntingly real, but to you... it’s nothing, isn’t it?

I muster a bitter silent laugh, with fingers hovering over the ‘call’ button. what does it matter?

all these years, I wavered over the number I never called.

all those times in the past, i shook and hesitated.
words I swallowed and silenced.
hitting ‘backspace’ until it was an empty space staring back at me.

it was always like this.
nothing was all I did.

Nothing, was all I ever did.
despite the ways the scenarios would play out in my head. The things I would say, the tone of my voice, the stupid jokes I would tell... nothing.

Nothing at all.

I threw the phone towards the bed.

So yeah, nothing’s wrong.
A feeling of sour regret burns my nose.
How could anything be wrong since I never ever did anything to begin with?