Don’t Hang Up

Don’t Hang Up

The phone rang at 2:17 a.m., the kind of hour when only mistakes, emergencies, or ghosts still reach for you.

I stared at it until the screen dimmed, then lit again. Unknown number. I told myself to let it die, to roll over and sink back into the shallow sleep I’d been pretending to have for weeks. Instead, my thumb moved on its own.

“Hello?”

Static breathed on the other end. Then a voice, thin and familiar, as if it had traveled a long way to reach me.

“Don’t hang up.”

My stomach tightened. “Who is this?”

“You know who it is.” A pause. “You always did.”

I sat up. The room felt suddenly too small, the walls leaning in like they wanted to listen. “That’s not funny,” I said. “If this is some kind of joke—”

“It’s not.” The voice wavered. “Please. Just don’t hang up.”

I hadn’t heard that voice in three years. Not since the last call. Not since the goodbye that wasn’t supposed to be the last one.

“You shouldn’t call,” I said, the words coming automatically, like a script we’d practiced before. “You promised.”

“I know.” A shaky breath. “I tried not to.”

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. “Then why now?”

“Because this is as close as I can get.”

The line crackled. For a moment, the voice blurred into static, and panic spiked in my chest.

“Hey,” I said quickly. “I’m here.”

“I know.” Softer now. “You always say that.”

I swallowed. Memory pressed in from all sides: late nights, phones wedged between shoulder and ear, laughter echoing down empty streets. Promises spoken like facts. Forever treated as a schedule, not a risk.

“You sound tired,” I said.

A small laugh. “I am.”

“Where are you?”

“Not where I thought I’d be.” Another pause. “Not where you are.”

I closed my eyes. “This isn’t fair.”

“I know.” Silence stretched, heavy but unbroken. “I’m not calling to fix anything.”

“Then why call at all?”

Because I need you, the voice didn’t say. Because I never stopped loving you. Because I’m afraid.

Instead, they said, “I wanted to hear you answer.”

The truth of it landed harder than any confession. I leaned my head against the wall.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I said. “Calling like nothing changed.”

“Everything changed,” the voice replied. “That’s the problem.”

The phone hummed softly, like a living thing. I imagined the distance between us, miles and years folded into a fragile thread of sound.

“Do you remember,” they said, “how you used to count my breathing when I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes.”

“You said it reminded you I was real.”

I laughed despite myself, a quiet, broken sound. “You are real.”

Another pause. Longer this time. When the voice returned, it was quieter. “I’m not sure how long I will be.”

My heart stuttered. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t have much time tonight.” Static surged, then settled. “And I didn’t want the last thing between us to be silence.”

Fear crept in, cold and deliberate. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry.” A whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

The signal faltered again. I gripped the phone tighter, as if pressure could anchor the voice in place.

“Listen,” I said. “You don’t get to disappear again. Not like this.”

A sad smile passed through the sound of their words. “You always did hate unfinished sentences.”

“Then finish one,” I said. “Say what you’re really calling to say.”

Silence. Then, very clearly: “I loved you. I said it a million times, and I meant every one.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I know.”

“I never stopped.”

“I know,” I repeated, and this time it hurt less.

The static thickened, swallowing the edges of the voice. Panic surged.

“Wait,” I said. “Don’t—”

“I won’t,” they said quickly. “I promise. But you have to let me go when it ends.”

The line began to fade, like a radio slipping out of range.

“Don’t hang up,” I said, the words breaking.

“I’m not,” the voice replied, already distant. “You are.”

The call ended.

The screen went dark, reflecting my own face back at me. I sat there long after, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the quiet hum of a world that keeps going even after the line goes dead.

And for the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel empty.