The phone beeps in my pocket.  I walk past the pond, newly frozen but not yet thick enough to walk on.

Ducks slide, lightweight and carefree, wondering if I have breadcrumbs.

“Listen,” your message begins.  “I don’t know if you heard about the tornado.  The entire building is gone.  Dozens missing.  But I wasn’t there.  I haven’t been there in a long while.  I don’t know if you knew that.”  You pause.  “I thought you’d want to know.  Because… I’d want to know.”

I feel the full weight of our past push against your pause.  So much you want to say and never could.  I hear you take in a long, deep breath, on the verge of saying more.  “Okay, bye.”

Your pauses speak volumes.  Jazzy silence bending notes between your words. 

The ducks give up on me, moving on to another guy who might have breadcrumbs.

It’s been years of duck migrations since we spoke of our mutual friends in the building, the ones you adored but I couldn’t stand.  The ones you chose over me.

I thought about you when I heard.  And maybe a little about them. 

But mostly you.  Always mostly you. 

I stop by the edge of the pond.  Step forward.  Press my heel down until the thin layer of ice snaps and my foot sinks three inches to the bottom. 

Cold water moves over thin ice and soaks into my thick boot.  I pull my foot out of the water.  And realize how little the past matters.

Because you’re okay.  Alive.  Somehow, somewhere.

I breathe out slowly.  For now, right this minute, that’s enough.

Alex M. Stein is a Los Angeles-based screenwriter, multiple Moth Story Slam winner, and documentary filmmaker.  He loves the Northern Lights and cold weather, despite living in an area where water never freezes.