Still on the Line

with Chapel of Love

There were rules about the phone.

She’d used it too much.

Now she wasn’t supposed to.

She stood in the open space,

hand to her ear—

thumb and pinky,

the other fingers folded in.

Close enough.

And with her other hand,

her index finger moved.

Slow. Circular.

Keeping time—

we’re gonna go to the chap—…

a pause—

…gonna get mar—…

she caught it again,

just enough to stay with it—

like she knew the rest

and didn’t need us to hear it—

like it was already playing

somewhere we couldn’t reach.

“Who she talkin’ to?”

someone whispered.

She smiled—

not at us,

but like something on the other end

had reached her.

That was the part

that made it hard to laugh.

For a second,

it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like we were the ones

missing something.

A counselor stepped closer.

He said her name.

The finger kept moving—

one more turn.

Then stopped.

She lowered her hand

like the call had ended.

No one spoke.

We drifted back

into ourselves.

But something stayed—

like the call had ended,

but not all the way.