The phone rings every day at 5:00 pm, and I'm shocked every time. The ring is the same one I use for my alarm clock, so I shoot out of bed at five and scramble to the living room. I stumble and nearly slip on a sock left on the floor as I go for my phone, but I don't answer it. I never do. The point behind this maneuver is to get to my phone and decline the call fast enough before the memories rush in and I remember everything, like why I keep ignoring my boss's calls and why he keeps calling every day at the same time.

He thinks I'm gonna change my mind.

He thinks I'm gonna get better.

The phone calls have been going on for weeks. My paid leave was over and I never came back. They filled my spot with someone else five months ago, yet they still keep calling in case there's a chance of getting me back. I haven't answered my ex-boss's phone calls in days. He's persistent.

I don't blame him. He's not the only one with these hopeful thoughts. I get them too on days when my bed is warmer than usual and I find a box of cookies my sister had left late at night that I forgot to eat.

It's always a great day when there's something sweet for breakfast; it's too unexpected. My tastebuds explode in happiness. Then there are the rainy days when I'm curled up in warm sheets with an exciting book that makes me wanna jump up and down.

I haven't felt like that in a while.

Today, I wake up late and it takes me two steps to get from the bed to the kitchen. That's how small my apartment is, but I love it. Every part is white and neat and filled with pictures on the wall of everything I find inspiring. The black ladder bookcase is my favorite part of the apartment. It sits in the middle between two doors—one leads to the bathroom and the other leads to the closet. It's filled with books that he left, overflowing and messy in the best way. The spines are broken and the books are dog-eared and filled with cursive annotations he left. Unlike me, he likes his books messy and personal. Whenever he reads a line he dislikes, he crosses it—lightly enough for me to read it—and rewrites it as if he's the editor of the book. That's one part of him that'll always be there.

I remember disliking whenever he did that. He'd put pen to a book and it sent a shiver along my spine. I love having a pristine and tight copy of my books because that meant that I took care of it. But he told me that books, like people, wear out by time. He has a scar at the bottom of his back. He was eight and fell down the steps in a museum from excitement. It reminds him of a beautiful painting he saw and a silly poem he wrote.

Atlas didn't just write his thoughts, they crawled out of him and floated to the pages. He doesn't even bother writing neatly. His writing is quick as if he's trying to get the sentences down before they elude him.

But I can't read these books anymore. I check out clean versions at the library so that I don't weep while reading them. Unless I'm already crying, in which case I'll gladly pick one of those books to feel less lonely.

Pieces of him live in those pages. They live here, right next to me. His molecules are still floating around this room for whenever we find a way to revive people. His books are on my shelves and his handwriting is on the notebooks I never knew how to put into good use. He likes to write longhand, I've learned.

I make breakfast just like he used to. The pancakes are burned on one side, but I flip them over and pretend everything is fine. Just the right amount of syrup can make me forget.

I don't always think of him, but sometimes I can't help but look at the walls and remember that he helped me paint it this clean shade of white, that he drew constellations on the wall for me. It was my birthday when he decides to make the sky. That's how his presents are. Meaningful and personal.

Everything reminds me of him. Even that guy in that book who bears no resemblance to him. The only thing they have in common is that they're both dead.