"You missed my calls yesterday." My boyfriend's scruffy voice came over the receiver crackly and barely audible.

I'd grown used to the extra strain my ears had to take to hear what he was saying, so I could respond without having to pause to decode what might've been said.

Though his greeting made my heart twinge with a little guilt, I gripped my pink and purple phone case in annoyance anyway, catching a few of my brown hairs that were rolled into perfect, meticulous curls. I forced the strands free with unnecessary force. The hours I’d spent that morning primping so I could look nice for a class presentation meant nothing when I started fidgeting out of exasperation.

.I was tired of hearing that. I was tired of feeling bad about my current life not always aligning with his new one.

"Yeah, sorry. You know I have class and stuff, so..."

I let my voice trail off so he could fill in the blanks. I had explained the same thing over and over again. After the few months he'd been in jail, this had become a routine after all. I used to watch for the jail number saved under “We’re Gonna Get Through This," like my life depended on hearing his voice every day after we were snatched apart.  If I missed one call in my weirdly religious schedule of telephone visits with him in between working full-time and being a full-time student, he would start acting all huffy like a kicked puppy. He wouldn't say it, but I felt it. 

"You okay?" I asked, trying to fill in the awkward silence that was starting to balloon too big. I knew not to push it too far. He still needed me to be his emotional center; I never let myself forget that fact, not even when I was trying to. He was in a harsh system built to break down his mind and make him mindlessly compliant. I’d never wish anything like that on anyone, so, at some point, I started to pity him. I did my best not to rock his emotional boat too much.

"I'm keeping my head up. For you," he rasped, sounding more tired than sincere.

I smiled instinctively but felt nothing inside. A memory of a time when anything he said to me would have had my cocoa cheeks rising even when I tried to fight it bubbled in my mind. I was so in love then, I couldn't help it. The memory and others like it were so vivid that it was easy to recognize when I no longer felt that way. Our relationship no longer existed at that time. I wasn’t in love anymore, and he wasn’t in an environment where he could offer any anyway. He had to completely turn off his emotions to not get swallowed by the darkness of the correctional system. I knew he was just another victim of the school-to-prison pipeline. He was still so young, and no one had ever really tried to help him. When I finally came around, it was too late.

I tried to love all of his past away and show him we could be happy living a different kind of life. Right when I thought we were making progress, he was gone.

"Everything will get better soon. You just have to believe."

I shifted on my purple bedspread, shuffling a few of my textbooks closer to the edge of the bed by accident as I curled myself into the fetal position and cradled the phone like it held the most precious thing on Earth to me. There was a pause, and this time, I didn’t try to fill it. I just listened. I listened to see if I would hear the thud of my books finally sliding off my bed as my legs shook up and down with anxiety. I listened to see if I could hear Jalen's breathing, like visualizing the rise and fall of his chest, which I'd seen so many times, would make me feel closer to him. My eyes slowly started closing by themselves until I finally heard, "I miss you. I'm so glad you're sticking beside me through all of this, baby. For real."

My eyes snapped open, and the words sank into my subconscious. I was listening for something to make me feel something reminiscent of what we'd had before, but I couldn’t forget so quickly anymore; he can’t give me that right now.

"I miss you too."

The disappointment reared its head but dissipated as the light rumbling of movement on his end signaled that the phone call would end soon. Relief washed over me. I didn't know how I had been making this work for so long, but it wasn't the time to start questioning it.

He smacked his teeth in agitation at the interruption, but resigned anyway.

"We're about to lock up. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Yeah, talk to you tomorrow," I replied softly, still offering no one my flat smile.

"I love you, Amaria," he crackled, his tone stronger and more defiant, as if telling me he wasn’t giving up yet. We always promised each other "no matter what,", not "forever.” This time, he was demanding forever of me, as if he knew.

The twinge of guilt came back as fiercely as the first time.

"I love you too."

When the line disconnected, I looked toward where my books should've fallen and saw a silhouette that made the hairs on my arm stand up. I should've known he was there since the books never sounded off, but he still scared me. It wasn't because I thought he’d heard, though. There was nothing else for me to say about the situation besides what I'd already told him.

Of course, that still didn't stop him from looking up at me with dark, questioning eyes.

Still in the fetal position, I tucked my head in my knees and hid my own eyes. I needed to lick my wounds from one prickly exchange before starting another.

Iman did not offer one sound in response to my blatant disregard. For a while, his deep ivory skin and presence seemed to blend into the darkness and silence of my bedroom in my apartment. The city sounds bounced against the walls, and it was like he wasn't there. In the mental state I was in, the thought honestly comforted me. That's what Iman had been for me since we'd met anyway—a source of comfort. I'd ruined so much already by saying all the wrong things. I just needed a minute to think before I messed up what we had too. Mentally, I was begging him, "Please, don't ask. Whatever it is, please, just wait."

My pleas didn't reach him; however, because he still asked,

"Do you still love him?"