It was two in the morning when he called; that's why I couldn't hold myself and look at the screen before growling "what the hell" to whoever at the other end. There came a long silence, which finally compelled me to see who was calling at this hour. And, oh. "Hey, what's up?" I somehow felt like an idiot, changing the tone abruptly and becoming alert. But mostly, I feared that something bad, something unexpected and unusual had just happened because he calling me, of all people, was already a weird incident in itself. I tried to calculate our time difference but my brain miserably failed to function. "Hey," I began again, worried. This time he spoke and I started to understand. "I'm a little bit scared," he said. It was the most unlikely phrase to be heard from him and also very unbecoming of him to say so. A part of me was relieved that he didn't have a serious accident and wasn't in desperate need. A political accident, maybe. But it's not fatal (not yet, he argued). So I listened to him until I fell asleep without knowing.

I called him again at eight, grimacing at the television while doing so. Perhaps, he might have gone to bed now, considering his national heartbreaking. But he answered and all I could say was "I'm sorry" and tried not to add "for your loss". He seemed calm enough, tired even. No background noises or curses while I suspected that his city could have gone wild. "I'm at home," he replied when I asked, "a lot of my friends are at her HQ, though." And yes, I could imagine his friends, who were quite hardcore enthusiasts and supporters, either sobbing loudly or outrageously initiating a protest right at the moment. I never imagined the result to be like this; that's what a bad joke was meant to be, isn't it? No one expected it to come true; and, once it turned out to be real, its humour was lost forever. He wasn't that much furious but rather resigned to accept the incredible result. "I'm trying to be optimistic," he sighed, which brought me a smile that he would never have a chance to see anyway. Maybe this might have been a new dawn, whether it's good or bad, after all.

"It's high time to consider moving to my country, you know," I teased him at last. "Big industry, great whiskey, culturally rich, free of Brexit and your American political bullshit." I heard him chuckling softly. It was so naive of me even in joking, as if he lived across the street and we didn't have the Atlantic set us apart  — yet his small laugh was rewarding nonetheless. "A lot of people think they could just move to Canada," I heard a smile in his voice again. I knew one of his friend (that hardcore fangirl) had announced earlier that she would join this movement, and that the Canadian Immigration Office site had just crashed. How hopeless and funny that you, the people, were. Soon we started to talk about it more light-heartedly and shifted to bits and bits of small talks, like he had been here two days ago and hadn't bothered to call me, and about that new advertisement he just saw and I was embarrassed of — until I had to go to work and he should have gone to bed, until I said good night and he returned with good morning, until we both agreed  — "Until the next time", or probably, "until the next four years."