I had been feeling off that day. Yesterday had been anxious at college, and after coming back, today it was worse. I was irritable and restless, though I couldn't pinpoint why. I had thought of him a little the day before, and the day before that, but for some reason, I couldn't imagine his face clearly when I did, which worried me — it was always so easy before.
I was watching a series when his call came. I picked up, thinking he might be back in town. Instead, he told me he was in the desert. I laughed, but he wasn't joking. He said he had just turned his phone on today, which I hadn't expected since he had mentioned before that he would keep it off to avoid trouble while away.
My mood lifted immediately. All the anxiety, the tension, the stress — it vanished, and I felt lighter than I had in days. I was surprised. I thought I had finally accepted his leaving; that our last conversation had closed the chapter, and I was ready to move on. But life isn't a movie. Talking to him, laughing with him, was a shock to my equilibrium, and yet it was thrilling.
He told me I was the fourth person he'd called — two of them were his parents, one a friend he was staying with. I wasn't sure whether to feel special or insignificant. He spoke about how he had almost entirely cut contact with everyone else he used to know. I wanted to joke about surviving, but I stopped myself.
We talked about meeting his kids. I mentioned I'd go next week with a friend I'd made. He suggested we could go together and celebrate a girl's birthday there since we both knew her. I agreed. I asked him to take pictures of the desert for me. He said he was in a room with AC because it was scorching outside.
He shared some shairs with me. I tried not to ask their meaning, but I couldn't resist. He joked that I had this effect on him, that I somehow brought out a side of him he didn't want to show. I asked about why he changed statements so often — why he seemed to mold his words to please people. He said that was simply people's viewpoint; he didn't want to fight anyone over it. If agreeing made them happy, he didn't mind. "Viewpoints are meant to change," he said.
I asked him to be honest with me. If I said something wrong, I wanted him to correct me, because I liked friends who did that. I added a laugh, telling him not to be too harsh because I was sensitive. He responded by jokingly turning it into a song, singing softly just before the call cut off.
I was shocked to realize we'd been talking for forty-five minutes. It felt like fifteen. Time always rushed like that when I talked to him. I considered calling back, but I wasn't sure whether the call had cut off on my end or his. I decided against it. Maybe he wanted to speak to someone else, or maybe it was just random.
It was a breath — a shared breath — and somehow, he inhaled it just as deeply as I did, whether he admitted it or not.
The next day, the video call continued. He showed me the entire area where he was staying, the desert stretching around him. I couldn't see any sand at first, so he went to the back and kicked it with his feet, a playful gesture. I had expected more, so he went farther but admitted he was scared to go too far. Then he showed me the hens, explaining that he had brought them here as chicks, and the little chair where he usually sits.
These weren't just details. They were fragments of his solitude, his past, his daily life. Things people rarely share, especially from their private retreat.