Rehearsal

It's less talking and more consoling. Reasoning out everything that went wrong. Every now and again, I feel my heart start to race and that ever familiar pit starts to swell in my stomach. Instinct tells me to reach for my phone, but looking at it now does more harm than good. Just a list of declined invitations and months old texts. I toss the phone aside and crawl into my bed, even though it's 95 out. I'll close my eyes, toss and turn, trying to fill agonizing silence. I don't even remember what a concerned voice sounds like. I'm becoming more and more familiar with that detached monotone drawl that finally calms me down. All he has to do is ask:

"Are you okay?" 

After a quick pause, I'll respond, "Alright. You?"