Your voice was always really soft. I could hear how kind you were in your voice. I still remember it now. I always liked calling you to talk to you. Even though we didn't do it a lot, I admit it was usually afraid I'd call you and have nothing to say. I try not to show it but I'm very awkward, I say awkward things, I laugh awkward, but you never seemed to sound that way.
Something about me you didn't know--I was afraid I'd call and talk to you and say just one wrong thing. One wrong thing and you'd never want to talk to me again, or the image you had of me would shift. I'm not sure what that wrong thing would have been, even now.
But those couples who used to love each other before suddenly realizing how despicable the other was. Love that fades and becomes thin as paper after three or four years, or people who shout, "I just don't love you anymore!".
It must have been a result of something similar, right? At least, it must have all started from a single wrong word.