tell me your secrets and ask me your questions (oh, let's go back to the start)
The phone is warm in your hand.
Your fingers are sweaty, though you are shivering in the cold (and the harsh wind of doubt and anxiety).
“You can call me.” he assured you. “Anytime.”
You look down at your knuckles that have turned white from clutching the phone too hard.
As if trying to make it ring by sheer physical force. And maybe you are- trying (you swear to God, you are).
You have seen him on TV, punching the air with joy and ecstasy and the feeling of win (somewhere inside you, you remember what it feels like. You remember how it feels to almost burst with pride, to feel invincible. But it’s a faint memory; it’s the shadow of a passerby, long gone and not looking back- unlike you).
Anytime.
In times when he wins and you fail.
When the new wonderboy scores the 1,000th goal (and the 400th and 500th and 600th and 700th have long lost importance).
When your name is no longer chanted, no matter what shirt you try to pull on.
When you forget who you are.
You can’t.
You can’t listen to his voice (and risk hearing a hint of disappointment, albeit hidden under a cover of politeness and exclamations of ‘Oh, it’s you!’, when he hears your voice and it’s not the one he expected).
You can’t ask him how he was, for his answers will break your heart.
You can’t absorb his words without imagining his lips moving, his eyes narrowing, his eyebrows furrowing.
You can’t.
And still you find yourself pressing the buttons to form a number you know by heart.
You listen to the dialing tone and half will the voice mail to respond.
"Michael?"
You inhale a sharp breath and your fingers almost loose their grip, almost let the phone drop.
“Is that you?”
You bite your lip and wish for your eyes to stop burning. You nod, slowly at first, then more vehemently.
“Yes.” you exhale. “I-… maybe I shouldn’t have called. I didn’t want to, I-”
"God, Michael" and you imagine his lips moving, while strangely soft sounds escape his mouth,
"What took you so long?"