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Summary
Will’s sadness, in the grand scheme of things, is another inutterable thing. Not for its tragedy or its beauty or its remarkableness, but because it is unremarkable. Unpretty, unharmonized, unfeathered—it exists. He carries it in every inch of his body; at the end of the day, it echoes around, sits in the chair Will leaves vacant for its body in his bedroom, folds its hands, waits. It doesn’t have to announce itself. It, like so many other things, simply has to be. But still, as he is every night, even night after night where the absence of light slicks his skin like sweat, he hesitates.
In that moment of hesitation, his phone buzzes from the desk. There’s only one person who would reach out to him at this time of the night.