The Call That Never Came—Until It Did

Seven years ago, she said she’d call me back.

It was a quiet afternoon. The kind where the sky is neither sunny nor sad—just undecided. I had just poured myself a cup of chai when my phone rang. It was her. Zoya. The only girl who ever understood my silence.

We’d spent three years building something that wasn’t exactly love, but wasn’t just friendship either. We were like two lines running side by side—never touching, never crossing, but always close.

That day, she sounded different. Not like herself. She said, “I need to go. I’ll call you later.”

Later never came.

I waited.

A week passed. Then a month. Then a year. I messaged. I called. I wrote long, pointless emails I never sent. Eventually, I stopped trying. People told me to move on. I tried. But how do you move on when you never got to say goodbye?


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Years turned into a blur of routine. I changed cities. Took a job in Lahore. Started working nights at a local media house, writing headlines that didn’t matter. “Power Outage in Model Town,” “New Mall Opens on Canal Road,” “Prices of Tomatoes Rise Again.” Nothing that made the heart race.

But sometimes, I would write stories just for myself—quiet, personal ones. Stories of missed chances. Stories of people who wait. And once in a while, I slipped Zoya into a paragraph. Hidden between the lines, she lived on.

I published one such story last year. Titled The Girl Who Forgot to Say Goodbye. It didn’t get many likes. But one comment stood out. It simply said:

“Sometimes goodbye is too painful. —Z”

I stared at it for hours.

Was it her?


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Then, last week, something happened.

It was raining. Not soft drizzle, but heavy, violent rain like the sky was grieving something deep. I was alone in the office, scrolling through old drafts, sipping cold tea. And then—my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I hesitated. Then picked up.

“Hello?” I said.

The line crackled.

Then a voice. Soft. Familiar.

“Riaz?”

I froze.

I had imagined this moment a thousand times, always thinking I’d have something clever or angry to say. But all I managed was: “Zoya?”

She didn’t reply right away.

Then, slowly: “I read your story. All of them.”

My chest tightened.

“I waited for your call,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

“I know,” she whispered. “I was ashamed. I didn’t know how to come back.”


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Zoya told me everything.

Seven years ago, her family was going through something horrible. Her father had fallen sick. Then he passed away suddenly. She was buried under hospital bills, grief, expectations. Her mother wanted her to marry quickly. A proposal came. She didn’t love him. But she couldn’t say no.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” she said. “I knew I’d disappear. I didn’t want to ruin your life too.”

I was quiet.

Then she said the one thing that broke me:

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

There was a long silence between us. But this time, it didn’t hurt. It healed.


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Over the next few days, we talked more. Not like before. Not with laughter and inside jokes. But with raw truth. She was divorced now. No kids. Living in Islamabad. She was working at a publishing house—ironically, editing stories like mine.

She confessed she had followed my writing for years, quietly, anonymously.

“Every time I read your words,” she said, “I felt like you were still talking to me.”

Maybe I was.


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Last night, she sent me a message:

“If you ever write about this… tell them I did call back. Just a little late.”

So here I am.

Writing not a headline, not a news piece—but a story that’s been waiting in my heart for seven years.

A story about silence, distance, and the courage it takes to pick up the phone.


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Sometimes, people vanish. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re hurting.

Sometimes, closure comes not when we expect it—but when we finally stop needing it.

And sometimes… the call does come. Late. Unexpected. But enough.

If you’re reading this, and you’re waiting for someone to come back—don’t wait with anger. Wait with understanding.

And if you’re the one who disappeared, remember—it’s never too late to call back.


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Author's Note:

If this story touched your heart, please like, comment, and share it. There’s someone out there who needs this reminder. And if you're holding on to a goodbye that never came—maybe it's time to write your own ending.


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