“Do you feel better?” I ask her. She doesn’t seem as paranoid or fucking antsy. “When I talk to you, yeah, I do.” “Then call me. I told you I wouldn’t fucking mind if you did.” “I didn’t want to bother you…the time difference…” “I’ll answer your call if it’s at four in the morning or midnight, Dais. It’s just fucking hard for me to call you because I don’t know when you’re on the runway.” There’s a long drawn out pause, and I can tell she’s trying to find the right words. She settles on these: “Thanks, Ryke.” She says my name with this genuine, heartfelt affection. “I mean it.” “I know you
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AWWW
