One Missed Call

"A strange phone call warns me not to go to work—and it’s my own voice on the other end."

I wasn’t supposed to answer it.

The phone rang just as I was about to lock my apartment door. At first, I ignored it—unknown number, early morning, coffee barely kicking in—but then something in the tone of the ring made me stop. It was my ringtone, yes, but slower. Almost… heavier.

I picked it up.

“Don’t go to work today.”

That’s all the voice said. My voice.

It wasn’t a recording. I know the tiny pauses I make between words, the way my “t”s soften when I’m nervous. It was me.

The call ended before I could say anything.

I stood there, frozen in the doorway. It had to be a prank. Maybe AI-generated, some deepfake voice. But how would anyone know the exact cadence of my breathing, the subtle rasp I’ve had since high school?

I shook it off and headed out, convincing myself it was nothing. People don’t get phone calls from themselves. Not in the real world.

The elevator ride down felt slower than usual. When the doors slid open into the lobby, the morning sunlight seemed dimmer than it should be.

Outside, the street was unusually quiet. My bus stop was just across the road, and I could already see the 32 pulling up. I jogged over, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone to text my boss about being a few minutes late. That’s when I saw it: one missed call, time-stamped ten minutes from now.

I stopped walking. How could a call have a future timestamp?

The bus doors hissed open. A few passengers stepped on. I stood there, pulse thudding in my ears.

The driver looked at me. “You getting on?”

Something in me hesitated.

I didn’t get on. I watched as the bus pulled away, a mix of confusion and unease crawling up my spine.

Minutes later, my phone rang again. Same unknown number.

“Good,” the voice—my voice—said. “Now go back inside.”

I swallowed. “Who are you?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Just… trust me. Don’t go out today. You’ll understand tonight.”

Click.

By now, my curiosity was fully awake. I went back upstairs, locked the door, and paced my apartment. Every possible theory raced through my head: prank, mental breakdown, some elaborate social experiment.

But then the news alert came through.

“Breaking: Collision on Westbound Route 32. Multiple casualties.”

My blood went cold. That was my bus.

I sat down slowly, staring at the headline. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The rational part of my brain screamed for explanations—coincidence, bad timing, whatever. But deep down, I knew.

I had just been warned.

By myself.

The rest of the day, I barely moved. I kept the TV on for background noise, drank lukewarm coffee, and stared at my phone, half-expecting another call.

It came just after sunset.

“See? You’re alive.”

My voice sounded tired this time.

“What is going on? How are you—how am I—calling me?” I asked.

There was a pause. “You won’t believe me until it happens again. Just be ready. I’ll call when you need to know something.”

“Wait, you can’t just—”

The line went dead.

That night, I lay in bed, wide awake. Every creak of the building sounded sharper, every shadow longer. My thoughts spun like a whirlpool—questions, fears, the dizzying possibility that my future self was somehow steering me away from disaster.

But steering me towards what?

As I finally drifted off, one last thought kept me awake just a little longer:

If my future self can save me… what else can they make me do?