The phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And it goes to voicemail again. I'm hyperventilating, and my fingers are ice cold. The room is too small, the walls are too close. Simultaneously, I'm far out into the open. A sitting duck, but for what, I don't know.
"Hey! This is Arthur! I'm obviously away from my phone at the moment so just leave me a message and I'll get back to you."
Beep.
I hang up again. That's the tenth time I've called. Did he change his number? No, the number is still his. It still exists.
God. He's dead. I fucking killed him.
Paul hasn't been back in a few days and I'm starting to miss people. He's on vacation. I told him it would be okay, that I wouldn't call him. And I haven't. But I have called Arthur.
Over, and over, and over again, I've called Arthur. But he hasn't picked up, or returned my calls. I tried texting him but haven't gotten a response there, either.
Is he ghosting me? I wish I knew. I can't help but think the worst.
T-boned on the freeway, dead at the scene. Downed a bottle of meds. Strung himself up in a motel room. Mugged and beaten to death.
My thoughts get worse and worse, until I'm shaking on the living room couch. I've left a half dozen messages.
I'm sorry, I want you to come back, it sucks without you here. I don't know if I love you yet but I think I want to try. There are things you don't know about me and I'm sorry I never explained.
I can explain.
I want you here.
Please come back.
Please, don't leave.
I toss my phone onto the couch cushion and press my hands against my face. The world gets darker with every day I'm in it, and it's starting to feel like my fault. What if he is dead? That's my fault. It doesn't matter who killed him, if I hadn't reacted like I did, he would've been here, with me, safe. If I had said 'I love you, too' or hugged him or told him something, anything, he wouldn't have left, he would still be here, and none of this would be happening. If I had done anything other than what I ended up doing.
I can't fucking believe myself. He was all I had and I destroyed it. Chances are, he's dead somewhere and I'll never know.
I'm so fucking sorry, Arthur. I'm so sorry.
I didn't mean to hurt him so bad. I never meant to kill him. If I knew where he was, he'd be safe, because I'd be coming to get him. If I knew where he was, and if I knew he was okay, I'd come and take him back home.
You'd wanna come home, wouldn't you? Or maybe you've decided that you hate me for how I reacted.
I'm so sorry. I love you.
Can I say that? I love you? I think I love him. I don't know. I think if I could go and see him, if he would talk to me, if he would answer my calls, I could explain. I could tell him that he's been the best thing to happen to me in the last decade, and if I could just have time, I would be able to figure out if I love him like he loves me.
My stomach turns at the thought that I might not love him like that. There would be nothing I could do. No matter what I could say, at that point, it'd never be what he wanted to hear. He'd leave and never come back.
It's my fault. Everyone who comes to me gets more pain than they deserve.
So I should change that.