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The line goes quiet.

You pull the phone away from your head to make sure it didn’t disconnect, which causes you to miss the first part of the Oriole’s response.

“-want me to do with this information. It doesn’t really change anything, does it?”

“I mean, not really,” you hesitate, “I just... I think maybe I was hoping you would have an opinion on it, that you would tell me you suspected or it surprised you or something. Does that make sense?” The note of pleading in your voice betrays how uncertain you are about the entire situation.

“I guess...” the voice on the other end responds, painfully unconvinced. “But you have to remember I never got to meet Jules, so I have no idea how you two got along. And you’ve posted what, half a dozen times on facebook since I left for school? Maybe if you were less of a shut-in recluse I might have been able to offer something worthy of consideration, here.”

You say nothing, the age-old accusation from your closest friend made all the more pointed in the years since they accepted a full-ride scholarship from out-of-state and left, immediately after going to ████████ without you. A fear grips your heart, that you are ossifying into a relic of the past, remembered fondly but not often thought of. This feeling is only strengthened as the Oriole continues:

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you were looking for but I gotta go, I’ve got stuff that needs checking on at the lab. Talk later!” she promises, but you know both that she will forget and you won’t work up the courage to call again.

“Goodbye.” you respond.

You hang up.