The darkness gleamed on the asphalt outside. Yashar watched a car pass by, reflecting its headlights to his window like always, before it disappeared. It had been weeks since he had stopped obsessively refreshing his phone in hopes of news, messages, a call - anything.

It had only been a couple of weeks since he had finally set some alerts on silent. The purpose had been for the sounds and vibrations to grab his attention, no matter the time of the day, and the purpose had been fulfilled.

When he had burst into tears at the parking lot of his apartment, Qua had asked him to at least set the phone on silent during nights.

The past two years were little other than memories of separate scenery for him. Him crying at the parking lot was a memory. Shadows and lights of the streetlights on Qua’s concerned expression were closely tied with it.

Uncertainty, the endless maybe. The repetitive “be patient”. Words that cut him and did nothing to alleviate the anxiety.

His apartment was less of a mess than it usually was around this time of year, when light started to pave way for darker days and longer nights. Obsessive cleaning was a new habit he had picked up. It kept his hands busy, kept them from bad decisions.

He tried to focus on the magazines in front of him, but it was a futile effort. There was nothing new in them, they had simply become an object to latch onto, a proof that his hope had a leg to stand on.

Two years.

He adjusted his shirt, adjusted the angle of his phone on the table, adjusted the blanket over his legs, adjusted the volume of the TV in the background. Yashar was used to adjusting his whole presence to the world around him.

Sometimes he imagined that this had all been just a long, elaborate bad dream. That any moment now the door would open, he would hear the familiar steps in the foyer, a familiar voice calling out to his name.

Some nights he woke up, certain that he had heard that voice, and he had to get up and walk to the foyer to find it empty, no shoes, no coat wet from rain or dusty from the city streets. Just silence.

The headlights of another car touched the frames of his window.

It was like waiting for Godot, he knew, and he knew nobody in his position would stop waiting, either.

On the table, his phone started buzzing. It sent his heart through restless loops of racing, his hand moved without a conscious thought, and was both simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see Qua’s name on the screen.

“I don’t care what he says,” Yashar stated firmly as soon as he accepted the call, “I’m going tomorrow.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. The kind of tired silence that often took place after a long work day, after frustrations swallowed and emotions bottled up. For a moment, Yashar was lost in trying to form an apology.

“I know,” Qua replied then with his deep baritone voice.

“I only called to let you know I’ll drive you.”