It’s been three months since they’ve spoken -- since August. Not a word -- no phone calls, no emails, not even a text. Nothing to help either one of them form images of the other’s life, because the images would be not only painful but inaccurate, affixed to barely anything. Their silence was never out of malice -- it was only because they thought it would be too hard. But now it’s different; now he most certainly cannot be the one to place the call. What would he do if she called? Would he lie? He imagines himself in her mind as she is in his mind -- a void, a question mark, someone whose continued existence in the present seems to defy the logic that preserves her in his past. He wonders if she imagines him as he imagines her: walking in the sun, a backpack on her back, weaving through a maze of new buildings, cheerful, maybe, but alone, only ever alone.