It's 1:17 pm.
The radio is playing some indistinguishable pop song, I have a bag of chocolate chips and I miss you.

Yesterday I sat in the backseat of my car, trying to relive that evening by the river. It was raining.

December 30th.
You brushed a strand of hair off my face.
"Are you going to be okay when I'm gone?," you ask, looking me in the eyes with that inquisitive gaze of yours .
I force myself to smile.
"Of course dear."
Then I kissed you.

It's 11:34 am.
I'm crouched awkwardly on the passenger seat of my car, breathing onto my sunroof.
My heart leaps for a moment. I think I see the vague outline of a heart and our initials that you made.

But it was just a smudge. I must have opened the window at some point.

The condensation disappears.
I rub the tags between my thumb and forefinger. They're cold from the winter air.
The sun peeps out from behind a cloud.
It will soon be spring.

January 4th.
"If I could, I'd never go back," you said, as you bury your face in my hair.
Tears glint in my eyes.
I put my arms around you at 8:17pm.
We won't let go for another three hours.

It's 12:08 am.
I'm staring at my empty cup of chamomile tea.
The teabag remains, soggy. It's congealing to the sides of the mug.
You won't be calling tonight.

December 23.
I don your digital camouflage jacket.
The sleeves are too long. I look like I have no hands.
You chuckle, and begin to roll them up in your meticulous fashion.
"There," you say after about five minutes. "Perfect. Just don't wear it around any veterans." You take my hand. We walk downstairs for lasagna.


It's 10:12 pm.
The sky is dark, but the city is brighter.
A couple walks hand in hand down the sidewalk.
I turn my head to the southern sky.
I whisper a prayer.
Maybe I'll dream about you tonight.

February 14.
My phone buzzes in that distinctive SOS pattern.
It's obnoxious. I should change it.
"School is getting hard, Lily," you say.
I nod as if you can tell I'm doing so.
"We should try to cut back on our conversations.
Someday we won't be able to talk at all."

My stomach does a flip flop.
"Okay, that's fine." I say, my automatic response.
"Alright, well, goodnight, I love you sweetheart."
You didn't notice my tone.
Our signal is getting increasingly worse.

"Goodnight dear, I love you too."
There's a click after you disconnect.