The Voice I Never Heard Again

It wasn’t a loud goodbye. In fact, it wasn’t a goodbye at all.

I remember the last time I heard her voice. It wasn’t anything special—just a small laugh, soft and kind, like she always had. She was telling me about a new book she found, something about stars and letters that never got sent. “You’d love it,” she said.

And I said I’d call her back.

But I didn’t.
I got busy. Life moved like it always does—too fast, too loud, too careless. And just like that, her voice faded into the noise of everything else.


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The next time I picked up my phone to call her, it rang once. Then twice. Then it stopped.

That was the day she didn’t answer.

And the day after that, she couldn’t.


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They told me it was sudden. That she didn’t feel anything. That she went peacefully. All those words people say when they’re trying to cover the silence with something easier to hear.

But none of it mattered.
Because all I could think about was the last thing she said. And the last thing I didn’t.


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I play her voice messages sometimes.
Not often—just when it gets too quiet, and I need to remember how soft her words were. How she always said my name like it was something important. Like I mattered.

There’s this one message where she just says, “Let me know when you get home.” It plays in my head when I walk through my door now. I always whisper, “I’m home,” back to the air.


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I wish I could remember more.
The sound of her laugh when she was really laughing—not just being polite. The way her voice cracked when she was tired. How she whispered prayers before bed. All those little pieces of sound that made her… her.

Now, all I have are memories wrapped in silence.


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I never got to say thank you.
Or I’m sorry.
Or I love you one more time.
Or even goodbye.

That’s the part that hurts the most.
Not the loss. Not the grief.
But the quiet.


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You never think the last time will be the last.
You think there’s always another call. Another visit. Another morning.
But sometimes, life doesn’t wait for your schedule.

And sometimes, people disappear before you’re ready to let go.


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If I could hear her voice one more time, I wouldn’t ask for anything big. Not a deep talk. Not even a full sentence.

Just my name.
Just once.
Like she used to say it—gently. Warmly. Like I was her whole world, even if I didn’t always deserve it.


---

They say people live on in memories.
That might be true.
But memories are quiet.

And I miss the sound of her.

The way she said my name like it was the nicest word in the world.
The way she laughed at her own jokes before finishing them.
The way her voice dropped when she was about to say something serious.
Those things don’t live in photos.
They don’t live in text messages.
They live in the spaces between—where silence now sits.


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Grief isn’t just about loss.
It’s about sound.
And how its absence becomes louder than everything else.

The world moves on, as it should.
But sometimes I stop and wonder if anyone else remembers the sound of her voice.
The tone. The rhythm. The way it could calm storms in my chest.


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There’s so much I never said.
Thank you.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
And worst of all: goodbye.

I never imagined I wouldn’t get one more call. One more laugh. One more soft sentence to hold on to.

You always think there will be more time.
More chances.
But life doesn’t work that way.
It doesn’t wait until you’re ready.


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If I could hear her one more time, I wouldn’t ask for a long talk.

Just my name.
Said the way only she said it.
Like I was worth listening to. Like I mattered.


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Now, the voice I loved lives in echoes. In dreams. In voicemail boxes I can’t bring myself to delete.

And in the silence that follows every moment I reach for the phone—and remember she won’t answer.