He Called Me Every Year on My Birthday—Even After I Blocked Him

He Called Me Every Year on My Birthday—Even After I Blocked Him

Written by Raza Iqbal

I blocked his number on March 12, 2018.

That was the day I swore I’d move on. No more texts, no more “just checking in,” no more late-night voicemails that arrived after two glasses of whatever he’d been drinking and too many memories he hadn’t buried. I’d told myself I was done. But truthfully, I never believed that would stop him.

The first time he called after the block, I didn’t notice.

It wasn’t until the following morning that I saw the “Missed Call – Unknown Number” notification. March 12, 2019. My 31st birthday. I stared at it for a long time, then deleted it.

But the next year, it happened again.

And the next.

And the next.

Every year, without fail, there’d be a missed call from an unknown number on my birthday. Just one. No voicemail. No follow-up text. Just a ghost tapping at the door once a year to say, I still remember you.

His name was Noah.

We met in the fall of 2012—two aimless souls in their twenties with dreams too big and plans too messy. He was the kind of person who quoted song lyrics like gospel, made eye contact like it was an art form, and kissed like he was afraid it might be the last time.

And maybe that was the problem.

Every moment with him felt like it was clinging to the edge of goodbye.

We lasted three years. Or maybe we didn’t. Because even when we were together, there was always this invisible expiration date hanging over us. He wanted freedom. I wanted roots. He craved the thrill of not knowing where he’d sleep tomorrow. I needed the certainty of a place called home.

He left on a Tuesday. Didn’t even pack properly—just shoved a few shirts into a bag, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’ll come back when I’m better.”

He didn’t come back.

When I finally blocked him years later, it wasn’t because I hated him. It was because I knew I’d never heal if he kept lingering like static on an untuned radio. I needed silence.

But even silence isn’t always quiet.

Every year, on March 12th, I’d catch myself glancing at my phone. And there it would be—one missed call. Always from a different number. Always with the same weight.

I tried changing my number once. Just to see.

March 12, 2022. Missed call. Unknown number.

How he kept finding me, I never figured out. Maybe he used friends. Maybe he hired someone. Maybe he just remembered the rhythm of my life better than I thought.

Then came March 12, 2025.

The call didn’t come.

I checked at midnight. Then again at 3 a.m. I left my phone on loud all day. But there was nothing.

And somehow, that silence was louder than all the calls before it.

I told myself it was a good thing. That it meant I could finally breathe. That maybe he’d moved on. Or maybe… maybe he couldn’t call.

That thought stuck in my throat like a splinter.

So I did something I hadn’t done in years.

I called him.

I tried the last number he’d called from the year before. It had been from a small town in Vermont, if I remembered right. The number rang twice, then disconnected. No voicemail box. Just—gone.

Something felt off. So I searched his name online. Not expecting much. Just trying to prove to myself that he was still somewhere out there. That he just forgot.

But instead, I found his obituary.

Noah Elias, age 39, passed away on February 20th, 2025.
A traveler, a poet, and a restless soul. Survived by his sister, a worn guitar, and too many unfinished songs.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

He died three weeks before my birthday.

He didn’t forget.

He never forgot.

And now, he never would again.

A week later, I received a package in the mail. No return address. Just my name, handwritten in the messy, slanted print I hadn’t seen in almost a decade.

Inside was a cassette tape and a letter.

> “Hey. If you're hearing this, I probably missed your birthday. I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t want this year to be different. So I asked someone to send you this. Don’t worry, it’s not a guilt trip. Just... me. One last time.”

I found an old cassette player in the attic. Blew the dust off. Slid the tape in.

His voice filled the room. Older, softer. But still him.

He spoke for ten minutes. Told me about the mountains he’d climbed, the songs he never finished, the lovers that never quite fit. He talked about regret, about time, about how he never stopped thinking about me.

> “I know I wasn’t good at staying. But I was always good at remembering. You were the only thing I never let go of, even when I should have.”


> “So happy birthday, one last time. I hope your world is full, your heart is quiet, and your days are soft. I’ll stop calling now. Not because I forgot. But because I finally understand letting go.”


> “Love you always. N.”

I listen to that tape once a year now.

On March 12th.

Not because I’m holding on.

But because I’m honoring the sound of someone who finally learned how to say goodbye.