I saw him at the park today, pushing a little girl on the swing. It had been such a long time since we had seen each other I almost couldn’t believe it. His rich but familiar laugh, although deeper, carried across the air, and for a moment, I was twelve again, sitting next to him on his parents’ porch, promising we’d be best friends forever. He looked older now, of course, with lines around his eyes, and a small bit of gray in his hair, but the creases around his smile… It was still him.

I thought about saying something, about calling his name, but my voice caught in my throat. Then, as if he could feel my stare, he turned. Our eyes met, and I saw a flicker of recognition, I smiled at him and nearly waved, but it only lasted a second. He looked right through me before turning and smiling back at his little girl as she called for him.

I stayed a little while longer, watching them laugh and play, before walking home alone. The silence of my apartment swallowed me as I stepped inside, and I realized I’d forgotten how long it had been since someone said my name.

It wasn't the news I'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life that upset me so much. In fact, I handled that pretty well. No, it was when they told me my wife and little boy wouldn't be going home with me that I bought the shotgun.

She lit a single candle on the cupcake. Red velvet, her mother’s favorite. The frosting smudged her pinky, and as she wiped away a tear, she licked it off, savoring the flavor. The phone rested on the table, speaker on. She watched the flame dance and the tendrils of smoke twist upward, vanishing into the shadows of her empty home. Her mother didn’t answer, but her voicemail came on. It began with a laugh, goofy and kind: "How do you work this thing?" A younger voice chimed in, teasing: "Mom, you're on already, its recording, Silly." Her mother laughed again, the sound of it like a hug she could no longer feel. "It is? Sorry, I can’t come to the—" The beep cut her short.

"Happy birthday, Mom," she whispered, biting her lip until it stung. She hung up but dialed again, desperate to hear the laughter. "How do you work this thing?" "Mom, you're on already..." The same words. The same warmth. The same absence. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I miss you so much, Mama."

The motel room stank of mildew, and cigarette smoke had seeped so deeply into the walls it felt like it was apart of them. A single bulb flickered above the bed, he didn't like it though, it revealed far more than the frayed wall paper. He sat slouched on the mattress, staring down at his phone. The screen glowed with a cold display, showing him how many times they didn't answer. He hadn’t left a voicemail. What would he say? Merry Christmas? Daddy loves you? I miss you? He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and walked toward the window. Snowflakes swirled outside, the parking lot lamp painting them gold against the night. Somewhere out there, his kids were sitting around a tree, opening gifts from another man who’d taken his place. He imagined their giggles, the soft shuffle of wrapping paper—Would they forget him all together? Turning back toward the room, his eyes landed on the counter by the bed. Among the takeout containers and crushed beer cans, the needle gleamed like an accusation. His stomach twisted. He could feel the pull of it, promising oblivion, a reprieve from the memories and their absence.