Test

The Jesuit said, you are never in love with anyone. You're in love with your own prejudiced and hopeful idea of another person. That's been rattling around in you for days now - a shutter banging crazily in the wind. You  can't sleep.

The hope is slowly bleeding from your prejudiced idea. She once kept a few of her things here in your drawer. You open it. She doesn't keep them here anymore. You do not keep a gun in the drawer either. What, you never think about it?

Your hair is more salt than pepper now. It's seven o'clock, might as well go to bed.

You think there's something wrong with your breathing when she leave this way. Almost asthma, you can't fully exhale or something. You are without rest or peace.

You removed her from your contacts again the last time. Changed the ring tone, and the text tone, so hers would be indistinguishable from any other. Now, that tactic has you checking every time something comes in. So you rename her number, assign a distinctive tone for calls and a different one for texts, in order to manage that problem. You hear it now - the sample, not the real thing - and your senses flood. Some of it was so good.

Now you are just waiting, not even pretending not to be.

They can tell you there's no magic, and that this is only a game you're playing with yourself, but they will have to do so more than once.