I spent most of my night frantically looking through the history of my phone’s voicemail searching for a digital recording of your voice, just to hear it again, as if it would feel like things are back to normal. I imagined myself talking back to the voicemail, laughing at your story, feeling sad that I missed out on a conversation in a call that didn’t actually happen in the present.

I read through your Facebook wall, your Twitter page, our texts, floods of photos on Instagram, and even your Myspace. My, how you grew before you left.

I flipped effortlessly through the tons of photographs on my phone, wishing there were more and more, even though each one hurts to view.

Still, I wish I had just one last story saved digitally. I’d play it over and over until my phone was sick of it. Then I’d play it again.

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