I looked at my cell phone patiently. No movement, no lights. No ringing. Nothing. It was as still as a statue. I was waiting for a call. I had so much to tell. I had so much to talk about, so much to share. Had the call come, it would have lasted for hours. Even then it would not have been enough. Only if the call would have come through.
I could have called. I knew the number. I knew my call would not get rejected. I could have made the first move. I dialled the number a couple of times but restrained myself from pressing the call button. Why? Why was I so hesitant to just call? That someone would have understood my need. I knew that person was expecting my call. Lately, something had changed between us.
We weren’t on the sound talking terms since quite some time now. Everything was normal and appeared distinctive on the surface. But the internal pattern had changed. We both had noticed it the last time we talked. We both didn’t want to admit it. We were no more as intimate, as forthcoming, as empathising, and as genial as before. There was no rough edge to our discussion, no spite or malice; just a cold lingering silence that lasted a little longer in between our conversation.
A pause. An expectation that the other person would talk first. The other person would break this silence, this barrier, this sharpness that was slowly turning into venom that was etching into our communication. If we couldn’t mend it now, it wouldn’t last long.
I recalled the old times, when we used to talk for hours together. The mere act of picking the phone and dialling the number was enough to lift the spirits. The phone is silent now. It didn’t ring. I had kept it away from me, in the other room, and checked on it after some time. I was hoping to see a missed call from that number. But no, it hadn’t ringed. That someone hadn’t called.
I am still hoping that I would get that call; if not today, then perhaps tomorrow.