Seven Hours and Fifteen Days

That’s about how long it’s been since the boy last spoke to me, and since school started this week, I’m no longer constantly thinking about him or wondering what I could have done differently. I’m thinking about how to best manage the vibrant personalities in one class, how to balance the grading load in another, how to teach grammar in yet another.

The distraction of being responsible for 145 teenagers is a welcome one.

I still wake up every morning hoping to see an email from him, but when the email isn’t there, I have no choice but to get ready for school, because 145 teenagers need me to be there. Even nights aren’t as bad as last week or the week before–mostly because I’m so exhausted that I just fall into bed. But I’ve also had things to do at night.

Like tonight–even though it was a school night, I went for a late dinner at Mother India with Ashley, her husband, and two of her close friends. I nearly made myself sick on mango lassi, naan, and chicken korma, and I laughed a ton.

Every day gets a little easier, but simultaneously harder, as I start to forget what his voice sounds like, and start to think he might have just been a complete illusion all along. And I have plenty of tangible evidence to the contrary, but I can’t look at it just yet. It’s still too raw.

But I’m better than I was two days ago, and I’m sure that trend will continue, until, like my friend Steve said the week after it happened, the boy is little more than a footnote in the book of my life.

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