She called me three days ago and before I heard the soft hello, I knew that something wasn't right. I felt it in the pit of my stomach as I sat in a pile of dirty laundry. I felt it coursing through my fingertips as I gripped the phone tighter in an effort to hear her whispers. But I didn't recognize the extent of the damage and I didn't understand the loneliness. Because you never want to admit that distance is a problem, you never want to own up to its confinement.
It’s terrifying to hear that depression is the culprit. Somehow, the words creep through the phone and into my bed – making itself comfortable and it's presence admissible. It is a tragedy to have to reconnect through gut-wrenching fears. Yet, there it is hanging in the air – the implications derived from isolation – and there's nothing left for us to do but to sit and listen to the other cry.
Maybe this reads like a terrible Chicken Soup for the Soul but the reason I wrote it is because of a simple phone call that wasn't so simple. And the only reason I'm making it public is because whoever she is to you, I hope you never forget to call her and tell her how much she's loved.