“We Fell in Love Over Missed Calls”

We Fell in Love Over Missed Calls

By[Ali Rehman]

It started with a mistake.

A missed call from an unknown number appeared on my screen one rainy Tuesday evening. I was in the middle of dinner, half-watching some old show reruns when the phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number, so I ignored it.

A few minutes later, another call. Same number. This time, curiosity won.

“Hello?” I said.

Silence. Then a soft, surprised voice: “Oh—sorry! Wrong number.”

The voice was gentle, almost embarrassed. I smiled. “No problem.”

And that was that — or so I thought.

The next evening, my phone buzzed again. Same number. I answered with a teasing grin. “Lost again?”

A light laugh. “I swear I’m not stalking you. I keep meaning to call my cousin, but your number is just one digit off!”

“Maybe your cousin’s getting jealous,” I joked.

She laughed again. “Maybe you’re the one stealing all his calls.”

Her name was Aisha. And from that accidental connection, something unexpected began.

At first, it was a few texts: “Sorry, dialed you again 😂” or “Still haven’t fixed my contacts!” But slowly, those small apologies turned into conversations. Short ones, at first — about our days, our favorite foods, the weather. Then longer ones — about dreams, regrets, fears, and everything in between.

It was strange how easily she slipped into my life. I didn’t even notice when my evenings started revolving around her messages, or how my phone became a portal to someone who felt like home.

Sometimes, we’d call each other just to talk about nothing. She had this habit of humming softly when she was thinking — little tunes that made silence feel comfortable.

One night, I asked, “Do you ever feel like some things happen for a reason?”

She paused. “You mean… like how I accidentally called you instead of my cousin?”

“Exactly.”

There was a smile in her voice. “Maybe the universe misdialed on purpose.”

We both laughed — but I think, deep down, neither of us thought it was just a joke anymore.

Weeks turned into months. We still hadn’t met in person. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to; life just kept getting in the way. She lived two cities away, working crazy hours at a hospital. I was tied to my design job, buried under projects and deadlines.

But every night, without fail, there would be a call. Sometimes it was just her voice saying, “Long day,” before she fell asleep mid-conversation. Other nights, we’d stay awake until dawn, talking about the kind of future neither of us dared to dream out loud.

One day, I sent her a message:

“You ever wonder what it’ll be like when we finally meet?”

She replied almost instantly:

“I think it’ll feel like answering a missed call that was waiting all my life.”

And then, one day, she stopped calling.

At first, I thought she was busy. Then a day turned into three. Then a week. My texts went unanswered. My calls went straight to voicemail.

The silence felt deafening.

I told myself she was fine. That she’d reach out when she could. But when the second week passed, I couldn’t take it anymore.

So I did something reckless. I took a day off work, bought a bus ticket, and went to the city where she lived.

Her number had led me to a small apartment building near the hospital. I stood outside for a long time, rehearsing what I’d say — “Hi, I’m the guy from the missed calls.” It sounded ridiculous. But I needed to know.

Just as I was about to leave, my phone rang.

Her name flashed on the screen.

I answered immediately. “Aisha!”

Her voice was weak but smiling. “You came.”

“I—how did you know?”

“I guessed you might. I wanted to call before you left.”

She paused, and I could hear the faint hum of hospital machines in the background.

“I’ve been sick,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

My throat tightened. “You could’ve told me. I’d have come sooner.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I needed to be sure you’d still want to hear from me — even when things weren’t perfect.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just whispered, “Always.”

There was a long pause. Then she said, “I’m at St. Mary’s Hospital. Room 214. If you’re really here… come say hi.”

When I walked into her room, she looked smaller than I’d imagined — pale, tired, but still wearing that smile I knew so well.

“You look just like your voice,” I said.

She laughed, a sound that filled the sterile room with warmth. “And you look like someone who never answers missed calls.”

We talked for hours — like old friends, like something more. And when I finally left that night, she squeezed my hand and said, “Don’t hang up on me now.”

Months later, she recovered. We still laugh about how we met — about the universe and its strange sense of humor.

Sometimes, when people ask how we fell in love, I smile and say, “She kept calling the wrong number.”

But the truth is, it was never the wrong number. It was just… meant to be dialed.