I want to believe that those restricted number calls at midnight--at one am--are from someone who misses me so much, he has to dial my digits right then just to hear the sound of my voice--I want to believe that those waves, those honks of the horn while I'm out for my walk are the same man, who is out of reach, but is telling me in a small way to hang on until we can be together again.
I want to believe those things.
But truth could be hard and cold and unfeeling and unfriendly.
The truth could be that these are all random occurrences.
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