So he broke first. He called. And I, foolishly, foolishly picked up the phone. We somehow managed to talk for 50 minutes, with the conversation occasionally running off into awkward silences, and my having to concentrate so, so hard on not saying anything I might regret.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you, darling", he said, at one point, picking up on my distress as my insides were being ripped to shreds with the effort of talking to him. It's been so long since we last heard each other's voices, our goodbye having been less than ideal, as we were interrupted midway.
"Please don't call me that," I managed, and he apologised again, this time using my name, a move I've now come to realise means "dear" and "darling" to him, as opposed to just being a mere pronoun.
He called, he said, because he missed me and wanted to see how I was getting on.
And I answered because I felt the same way, although I hesitated once I saw his name on the caller ID.
Why oh why did I pick up? Stupid, stupid girl.