You have a long day. You’re curled up in bed with two thin biscuits and an unread book. You hear footsteps and murmurs from downstairs but everything is in passing. So, you wick away that thought and continue to oblivion. You touch your left cheek and feel the small zit growing from there. You look at the window across—the 6-pm cold breeze gives you chill. You cling to a blanket. The detergent powder and fabric conditioner are too overpowering to smell sweat or stain or dried tears. You cannot smell dried tears, you tell yourself. You cannot smell tears.
You wish someone gives you a call. You don’t know why. Someone just has to break the silence, you say to yourself. You go back to the zit, stroke it, as if tracing a circle. Then, you take the book and try to read a few pages—a good attempt, you congratulate yourself.
You hug your knees. No rings. No calls still. Just one random call from one random person, just one—your mind tells you. At the back of your mind, you know you’re not picking up if it’s from your mother or from your best friend or from someone else. You know what you want. You know you deny it. You know you want him to call. You know the perfect time is now. But, you have to stick to the plot, you say to yourself as you finally prick that one lonely zit. Poor, poor zit, you mumble.