The Hour Between Calls

Every night at 11:11, my phone rings.

There’s no number. It’s not “Unknown Caller.” Only a blank screen, glowing softly, almost like someone breathing.

The first time, I thought it was just a glitch. I was half asleep in a dark room, the only light coming from the red numbers on my clock: 11:11. The call rang once, then twice, and stopped before I could answer.

The second night, I picked up.

All I heard was breathing.

It wasn’t heavy or scared. It was familiar, like the kind of silence you hear just before someone says your name.

“Hello?” I whispered.

The breathing slowed, as if listening.

Then the line went dead.

I didn’t tell anyone. Some things aren’t meant to be shared until you understand them. The call came again the next night. And the night after that.

Always 11:11. Always breathing. Always ending before words arrived.

After a week, I began preparing for it.

That was the first sign it had become a ritual.

I started brushing my teeth earlier. I put my phone face-up on the nightstand and turned off the lamp five minutes before 11. When I tried to stay up later, I always got sleepy, my body heavy, as if it wanted me to go along with the routine.

On the eighth night, the breathing changed.

There was a catch in the breathing. A pause. Then I heard something that almost sounded like my name.

I held the phone tighter.

“Yes,” I said.

The breathing faltered. The line crackled. Then, very softly, someone laughed.

Not mocking. Relieved.

The call ended.

The next morning, I noticed the mark on my wrist.

There was a thin, pale circle, almost like a faded watchband. I hadn’t worn a watch in years. I rubbed it until my skin turned red, but the mark didn’t go away.

That night, at 11:11, I asked the question I’d been avoiding.

“Who is this?”

Silence.

Then: “You know.”

The voice sounded distorted and thin, but something about it stuck with me. I couldn’t name who it was. I couldn’t remember.

But it was someone I missed.

“I don’t,” I said. “I would remember.”

“You promised you wouldn’t,” the voice replied.

The call ended before I could ask what I had promised.

I stopped sleeping.

Instead, I waited.

Each night, the calls lasted longer. The breathing became steadier. Sometimes the voice spoke in short pieces.

“You used to stay awake for me.”

“You said time would bend.”

“This was your idea.”

I searched my call logs. Nothing. I contacted my provider. They found no record of the calls at all.

On the fifteenth night, I didn’t receive a call.

11:11 passed in silence.

My chest felt tight. I sat up, holding my phone, waiting for the usual glow. But nothing happened.

At 11:13, my phone vibrated.

A voicemail.

No timestamp. No sender.

I pressed play.

It was my voice.

Tired. Strained. Speaking slowly, as if choosing each word with care.

“If you’re hearing this, it means I stayed. You left, like we planned. That’s good. That means you’re safe.”

The message paused. I heard the faint sound of breathing behind my own recorded voice.

“Don’t answer the calls,” I said to myself. “They need both of us. If you respond, it remembers you.”

The voicemail cut off abruptly.

At 11:11 the next night, the phone rang again.

I didn’t answer.

The ringing lasted longer than ever. The screen glowed brighter and warmer, almost like someone was pushing from the other side.

“You said you wouldn’t forget me,” the voice said, breaking through the ringing itself.

My wrist started to burn. When I looked down, the pale circle had turned into a bruise.

“I didn’t forget,” I said out loud, not sure who I was talking to. “I just don’t remember.”

“That’s worse,” the voice replied. “Memory is how we stay separate.”

The call ended.

The next morning, the voicemail was gone, just like that. My phone showed no record of it ever existing.

But at 11:11 that night, before the call could come, I dialed my own number.

It rang once.

Then someone picked up.

I heard breathing.

Familiar. Patient.

Waiting.