Talha khan

The Call I Let Ring

The phone rang while I was tying my shoes. I noticed it more out of irritation than concern. I was already late, already thinking about the day ahead. Meetings. Traffic. Things that required my full attention—or so I told myself. When I looked at the screen, the name surprised me. My father. We hadn’t spoken properly in years. Not because of a fight, not because of anger. Just distance that slowly learned how to live without effort. Occasional messages on holidays. Short calls that stayed polite and careful. Conversations that never stayed long enough to matter. The phone kept ringing. I stood there, one shoe on, one shoe off, watching the screen light up the hallway wall. I told myself he was probably calling about something ordinary. Maybe a reminder. Maybe a question he could have texted. I told myself I would call back. The ringing stopped. I finished tying my shoes and left the apartment. The morning air was sharp. The street was loud. Life moved forward without waiting for my decision to settle. On the bus, I checked my phone again. No message. No voicemail. That should have bothered me more than it did. I drafted a reply in my head while staring out the window. Sorry, I missed your call. I’ll ring you later. It felt easy enough to delay something that didn’t demand urgency. By the time I reached work, the day had swallowed my attention whole. Hours passed. Emails. Conversations. Small problems that needed immediate answers. At lunch, I thought about calling him, then decided against it. I didn’t know what I would say. I didn’t know how to begin without reopening old silences. Later, I told myself. That evening, my sister called. Her voice was different. Not rushed. Not casual. “Did Dad call you today?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “Why?” There was a pause long enough to change the weight of the room around me. “He’s in the hospital,” she said. “He didn’t want to worry anyone. He said he just wanted to hear your voice.” I sat down without realizing it. The rest of her words blurred together—terms I half understood, timelines that felt unreal. All I could think about was the call. The way I had watched it ring while convincing myself there would be another chance. I went to see him the next morning. The room was quiet in a way that made sound feel intrusive. He looked smaller than I remembered. Older. Tired. When he saw me, his face changed—not dramatically, just enough. “You came,” he said. “I should have come sooner,” I replied. He shook his head slightly. “You’re here now.” We didn’t talk about the call. We talked about ordinary things instead. The weather. The neighbor who never fixed his gate. A television show he’d stopped watching halfway through. I waited for the moment when something important would be said. It never arrived. When I stood to leave, he reached for my hand. His grip was weak, but deliberate. “I didn’t need much,” he said. “Just a hello.” I nodded, unable to trust my voice. He passed away two days later. After the funeral, I found myself scrolling through my phone more often than usual. Old messages. Missed calls. Small records of moments that had once asked for attention. The missed call from my father was still there. I didn’t delete it. Sometimes I open my call log just to see his name. Not out of guilt exactly. More like recognition. A reminder of how easily we assume time will wait for us to feel ready. The call rang. I let it ring. And now, that sound belongs to me.