You don't call anymore. Maybe that's foolish of me to expect. But you never take my calls either. I wait patiently till the ringing sound runs into the automated voice telling me you've moved on and have no interest in speaking to me anymore. Maybe you finally saw through me, maybe saw me for who I was - maybe all those sob fests about poor-old-me finally got too much for you to take. I must have disappointed you somehow, must have let on that I was just another girl in a long string of girls, with nothing to set myself apart with. You must pity me, the thought is horrifying, you must laugh with your new girlfriend, discussing the latest in my endless list of debacles. Both of you shaking your perfect heads at the weird heartless girl. I don't know why I do this to myself. It isn't helping anyone.

I wonder how you are though, all the time. I restrain myself from calling you, instead I send you an offline message with the vain hope that it will pop back at me with a witticism from your end. But I get nothing. Sometimes, you reply, but it is never the same as it used to be. I can almost taste your half-heartedness on my tongue. It makes me want to cringe. Our conversations are dry, full of words that neither of us ever got comfortable with - 'how are things?' and the like. We were better than this. Remember when I said with absolute confidence that we would never fade out? How silly of me. There, another anecdote for you to share with people who are more important these days.

I am not half as witty with others as I used to be with you. I can never pull of the any of the old stories and jokes. I no longer have a reason to stay in on a Saturday night, glued to my computer, talking and smoking and drinking coke for hours, giggling to myself.

Better things to do, you will tell me, smirking. We've got better things to do, both you and me. Then why are none of them half as much fun?