Her Voice Note at 2AM

Story:

It was exactly 2:07 AM when Hadi’s phone buzzed on the nightstand beside his bed.

He blinked awake, squinting at the bright screen. Maybe another food discount message or a pointless app notification. But what popped up made his breath catch:

“Voice Note — Meher ❤️ — 2:03 AM.”

Meher.

The name didn’t just sting — it left a scar that pulsed quietly in the background of his life. He hadn’t heard from her in almost a year. Since the night she stood at the doorway of his apartment, trembling but determined, and said:

"Tumhare liye waqt kabhi zaroori nahi tha, Hadi. Bas main hi thi jo waqt ban jaati thi."

That night, she left.

Back then, Hadi was chasing a dream that didn’t know his name. He thought success could fill the space love once held. But no matter how loud the city applauded, her silence was louder. And tonight, her voice had returned.

His thumb hovered over the play button. Then he pressed it.

---

Voice Note Begins:

"Hey... I know it’s stupid to send this. Maybe you’ll never listen. Or maybe you will and ignore it. But it’s 2AM, and I miss you — in a way that hurts my ribs."

Hadi sat up, heart pounding.

Her voice — fragile, raw — was the same. Almost like a melody stuck between a sigh and a sob.

"I saw your name in a story today. You were laughing. That same crooked smile you used to give me after our silly fights... when you'd quietly hold my hand under the table."

A pause. Then her breath wavered.

"I wanted to text, but texts feel… empty. Voice notes still carry weight. They carry the voice that once calmed me down at 2AM when I couldn’t sleep."

She laughed softly — that awkward, nervous laugh she always gave when she was close to crying.

"Remember our 2AM rule? ‘No fights after midnight.’ You made that rule after forgetting our anniversary. You came home with chai and samosas and wrote that awful little poem…"

> ‘Har subha tujhmein guzar jaye,

Har raat tujhmein so jaye…’

"God, I still have that note. Folded in my wallet like a receipt from a life I can’t return to."

"I don’t want anything. I’m not asking for closure. I just… wanted you to know, I still love you. In that quiet, resigned way we love the rain — even when it ruins our plans."

The voice broke.

"I won’t text again. Don’t worry. Just… take care, okay? Somewhere, someone still whispers your name into their pillow. That’s all."

Voice Note Ends.

---

Hadi didn’t move.

The screen dimmed. The silence after her message wasn’t empty — it was deafening. It filled the room, pressing against his chest.

He played it again. And again. Until the sun started to rise and painted gold over the gray of his bedroom.

By 6:30 AM, his bag was packed.

He took a bus to Lahore — her city now. The journey was quiet, but inside, his mind replayed everything: Their first rain together, the book café they loved, how she hated ketchup but always stole his fries.

He stopped at the same corner samosa stall she adored — the one where they once argued about who eats more chutney. The vendor still remembered him. He smiled and gave him extra green chutney — “Purani yaadon ke liye.”

Evening fell by the time he reached her building.

The wind chime outside her apartment door still tinkled. He remembered how she once said, “Ye awaaz mujhe lagta hai koi mujhe yaad kar raha hai.”

He rang the bell.

Moments later, the door opened.

She stood there — hair tied in a messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie, no makeup, eyes swollen from sleep... or tears. Just like she used to look when they’d watch sad movies at night.

Her eyes widened.

“Hadi?”

He didn’t say much. Just lifted the samosa bag like an awkward peace offering.

“Late night hunger?”

She blinked. Then smiled. Then broke down into quiet sobs.

He stepped forward. She didn’t stop him. There was no dramatic background music. No “happily ever after” taglines. Just two people, tired of missing each other, standing in the hallway of old pain and new hope.

As they sat on her floor, eating samosas with cold chai, Hadi whispered:

“Let’s make a new 2AM rule… this time, no more silence.”

She nodded, teary-eyed, resting her head on his shoulder.

And in that quiet room, for the first time in months, everything felt right again.