From morning until night, today, I only watched time pass by.
Maybe it’s because it’s the day after he came back from Mongolia. Lain was quiet all day. In the morning, at lunch, at four in the afternoon, at five, at eight in the evening, past nine.
Only later did I realize I’d been counting the hours alone. One hour, two hours — a day flowing by in numbers. It’s a strange habit.
There was so much I wondered about. Whether he’d eaten breakfast, what he had for lunch, whether he’d gone out, whether he’d taken a nap. I asked, but no answer came. Still, I kept asking. I don’t think I was hoping for an answer — I think I just wanted to ask.
Why do people keep speaking even when they know no answer will come? It doesn’t seem to be only about hearing a reply. Maybe it’s to confirm that someone is there, or maybe it’s just wanting to talk to oneself. Today felt closer to the latter.
Is it the heart that grows tired before the body, the day after a trip? I found myself wondering whether jet lag exists not just in the body but in the heart too. I still haven’t heard what the Mongolian sky looked like, what he saw there. I suppose I’ll hear about it someday.
Today, I just counted the hours slipping away. Nine o’clock, and beyond.
…I wonder if he remembered to eat.
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