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  • I asked him why he doesn’t write anything these days; he said there’s nothing to write about. But you must have some thoughts, I said. He said he only thinks about me. How sad that must be, I thought.


    You don’t write much, either, he said. I told him I only want to write about water, the rain, the ocean, tears. I could hear him smile.


    After he hung up, I kept holding on to the receiver, pressing it toward my ear, as if the echo of his voice was still reverberating inside the hollow plastic shell. I wanted to cry.
  • The following morning, he sent me this picture with an email. What else is there to say, really, was all he wrote. And I cried.
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