It's always this time, right before sleep. It's as if my body has memorized the schedules of the times we used to meet. You should be calling right now. "Open the door," you'll say, and I'll drop everything I'm doing to rush your way. We should be laying on the mattress you left me, you in my arms with in-sync hearts. We should be together right now, but instead you chose for us to be torn apart. Sometimes, when I lay awake, I can hear you coming up the stairs—but I know you're not really there.