The Last Text

He sits up in bed, willing his eyes to find their focus in the darkness. It's much too early to wake up, but his internal alarm clock begs to differ. He scans the room, slowly making out the shapes of carefully placed objects. He got his need for order from his mother. He sets his gaze upon the frame sitting on the chest of drawers. He can't see the photo held there, but he knows it by heart anyway. Every strand of hair. Every speck of gold in her eye. He subconsciously straightens the sheet over his legs. He grabs the cell phone sitting on his nightstand. "No new messages". He checks the time. 3:43am. He stares at the numbers as he silently calculates that it's been almost 10 hours since he sent her the last text. The dim glow on his face quickly vanishes as the phone goes back to sleep. He kicks himself for not saying something more open-ended in that last text. Something that would require a response. Instead he had forgotten himself and chosen the mundane, and terribly overused, "LOL". Now she has the upper hand. He has lost control. He shifts in bed and looks back to the picture frame. He can't see the picture but he knows her smile well. It's an easy smile. Slightly crooked. It is now as if she is silently mocking him with that smile. He contemplates sending another text but quickly talks himself out of it. Wouldn't want to look too desperate. He must wait. He absentmindedly shifts the pillows so that they are evenly aligned on the headboard. He looks down, hopelessly, at the dark cell phone in his hand. Nothing he can do now. He sent the last text.