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I continually stare at my phone, tapping it whenever the lights would turn off, waiting for a call - a call I know I could never ever get. I know no matter how hard or how long I wait, nobody would call me but my psychiatrist, asking me to come and see her for missing a session; or, at times, my mum, asking how I was doing. But nothing really matters; all I want is that one call from him and I know that its way beyond impossible to have. I finally stood up, picking my bag and a bundle of keys from the table. I picked up the phone, looking at it for the last time as if that call I waiting will reveal itself. But the screen lock only shows a picture of two person - a boy hugging a girl from the back; they were both laughing at a joke that was long forgotten - though the memory of it was sure to last. The gaze of the boy fell happily unto the girl as she laughs - I laugh - at something. The thought of it brings all the memories back - from happy to sad; and I can't take it. I just can't. I wiped the stream of tears that runs down my cheeks and tucked the phone inside my bag before I walked out of the flat. Though there are times - or most of the time - I miss sessions with my psychiatrist, I think I'd like to have her around. Yep, I should probably do that.