( when was the last time karen had another over, let alone within her sheets? she doesn't know. months span to years when it comes to a lacking touch, and eventually, it's easier to be absent of a thing when you no longer no how to long for it. it's a collection of things—work, files scattered across her coffee table, her kitchen counter, sometimes the floor of her bedroom where the light glints through, as if it could give her a spark. and then there's the city itself, the place she holds, what she's learned and what she wishes she hadn't—she has all the time in the world, coming home late to her apartment and nursing a coffee, or something stronger. she tells herself she doesn't. she tells herself she isn't missing anything.

she's the furthest thing from whole.

as much as she wants him to stay, it's not as simple as that. it's never simple with her. she knows how to sit in the quiet of her own place. what she didn't know was how to sit in the quiet with him. )

Either you're getting into less trouble, or you were holding out. ( for her to reach. to see if she could meet him somewhere in the dark. of course, when he did switch numbers, she'd come to learn it by an alert, a message from unknown. it's the only time she heard from him first. )

Sometimes it helps. ( when she finally caves, when she sends a message and sometimes even hours later, she receives a response. ) Like a push to get through the week. The month. The night, even. ( she makes a face like it's silly, like she knows, and draws in a breath, almost like she's retracting again to try and cover up the vulnerable. )

It'll be a change. ( for tonight. ) Not worrying what you're getting yourself into out there.