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August 6, 2019
In the mirror today she says his name out loud 10, 20, 30 times. Maybe if she says it too many times it will sound unfamiliar, like someone she never knew. There's hope, it will be okay—all the cliches. She plays his last voice mail: "Sam, anak, call me. I miss you, I want to hear your voice." Maybe someday she can forgive herself for not calling back? Her phone case's color has faded around the part where her hands usually clutch it. She's been holding on to it, hoping he would call. For anyone to call. She'll answer.