And she listens to him talk on the phone, speaking of what he did in the day, how is so busy in studies and activities that he doesn't have time to get bored, how he watches this movie and that series, how he reads this website and reads that blog, how he laughs and shares with his trusted friends... and she wonders, 'What should I tell him?' She has nothing of that. What does he know of the hell-hole she lives in? Of her chronic depression and ceaseless ennui.
He stops. Takes in her saturated silence.
But what can he do? He cannot cure her. He cannot give her his coping mechanisms, his avenues of escape, even if he tried. Oh, believe me, he tries all the time. But it doesn't work. He cannot take away her problems. He cannot give her true friends.
And the silence is too unbearable.
So he talks, in his desperate attempt to pour some of his life into hers.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
Everything is wrong, you moron.
"Please, I can't talk right now."
He knows he could console her, if only he was with her.
He's not. His voice is too weak and untrained.