I began measuring my days by James's calls. Not by the sunrise, not by the work waiting for me at home, not even by school. I measured them by the moments my phone remained silent.
There was a time when I couldn't count the number of times James called me in a day. Seventeen calls could appear on my phone, and I would smile just seeing his name. Now, I could stare at the same screen for hours and wonder whether he even remembered me. When I called, sometimes he didn't answer. When I called again,
I would find myself listening to the painful sound of call waiting. I would end the call and tell myself not to think about it. Then, a few minutes later, I would call again. I hated myself for doing it, but my heart kept hoping. Maybe he would answer this time. Maybe he would say he missed me. Maybe everything would return to how it used to be. But hope was becoming exhausting. Each unanswered call felt like another small rejection.
I began asking myself whether I was becoming a stranger to the person who had once made me feel so important. I remembered the beginning of our relationship, when James could call simply because he wanted to hear my voice. He didn't need a reason. Now, it felt as though I needed a reason just to get his attention. I didn't tell my friends how much it hurt. I didn't want them to see how desperate I felt. I continued smiling whenever they mentioned him.
If someone asked about James, I would simply say, "He's fine." But he wasn't fine. At least, not between us. And neither was I. I started noticing how much space Joselyn occupied in his world. She had brought his results.
She was close to his younger sister. She had sent gifts to his mother and sister. Every new detail made me feel as though she was moving closer while I was slowly being pushed away. I couldn't understand how quickly things had changed. I had once imagined being part of James's future.
I had imagined us growing together, supporting each other, and celebrating our achievements. Now I was struggling just to have a normal conversation with him. One evening, I sat with my phone in my hand and stared at his name. My finger hovered over the call button. I wanted to call him. I wanted to hear his voice.
But something stopped me. A thought came quietly:
How many times will you chase someone who isn't running toward you?
I put the phone down.
For a few minutes, I felt proud of myself. I had resisted the urge. Then the silence became unbearable. I picked it up again. I checked whether he was online.
I checked whether he had called. Nothing. I felt tears gathering in my eyes. I wiped them away before they could fall. I didn't want to cry over a phone call. But it wasn't really about the phone call. It was about everything behind it. It was about feeling forgotten.
It was about watching someone you loved become distant while you stood helplessly in the same place. It was about wondering whether another person had become more important to them.
And it was about the terrifying possibility that all the memories you treasured might not mean as much to them anymore. I still refused to confront him. Perhaps I was afraid of the answer.
Perhaps I was afraid that if I asked the right question, everything would finally collapse. So I kept waiting. I waited for his call. I waited for his explanation. I waited for the old James to return.
But every day that passed taught me something painful: sometimes people don't announce when they're leaving your heart. They simply become quieter, more distant, and harder to reach until one day you realize you've been holding onto someone who has already begun letting go.
And yet, despite everything, I still hoped. That was my weakness. Or perhaps it was simply love. I didn't know which one it was anymore. I only knew that I was tired of pretending I wasn't hurting.
I wasn't losing James in one moment. I was losing him one unanswered call at a time.