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Description
You dial a number.

It’s a number you’ve known from heart since you were eight, to call in case of emergencies, to talk, to cry and to laugh. This number is home.

The phone rings.

And you wait.

There is nothing else to do.

The knot in your stomach won’t ease, it sits there, heavy, demanding to be felt. A small spark of hope rests in your chest.

Maybe this time there will be an answer.

There isn’t though, after the ringing never seems to stop, and goes on, the only other sound being your breathing.

The voicemail is both disappointing and a relief to hear.

You hang up before it starts recording.

It tides you over for a while, that voicemail. It’s all that’s left, after all. Something that’s alive, that you can hear. If you close your eyes hard enough to hold back the tears, you can almost imagine they’re there with you.

You dial the number.

It’s a number that brings pain, and tears, and questions of why. It’s a number for you to call and cry to, to hear a voice that’s no longer there, to relive the past. This number is anguish.

And you wait, with baited breath, refusing to hope because you know there’s nothing there. No one is going to answer on the other line.

And you wait.

No one answers.

The time it tides you over is getting shorter and shorter. Less happens in the meantime, except life, and who cares about that? You sit on the edge of your bed, thumb brushing over the screen, the familiar contact staring up at you.

You wish someone would answer.

Turning, you put your phone down. A voice, a simple voice, it was so much to ask. It was never going to happen. You pick up your phone anyways.

You dial the number.

It’s a number that brings pain, and good memories, and sorrow of the deepest kind. It brings tears to your eyes to listen to it ring, but you still do, hope blooming in your heart.

“Hello?”

Your whole world shatters.

Description
You dial a number.

It’s a number you’ve known from heart since you were eight, to call in case of emergencies, to talk, to cry and to laugh. This number is home.

The phone rings.

And you wait.

There is nothing else to do.

The knot in your stomach won’t ease, it sits there, heavy, demanding to be felt. A small spark of hope rests in your chest.

Maybe this time there will be an answer.

There isn’t though, after the ringing never seems to stop, and goes on, the only other sound being your breathing.

The voicemail is both disappointing and a relief to hear.

You hang up before it starts recording.

It tides you over for a while, that voicemail. It’s all that’s left, after all. Something that’s alive, that you can hear. If you close your eyes hard enough to hold back the tears, you can almost imagine they’re there with you.

You dial the number.

It’s a number that brings pain, and tears, and questions of why. It’s a number for you to call and cry to, to hear a voice that’s no longer there, to relive the past. This number is anguish.

And you wait, with baited breath, refusing to hope because you know there’s nothing there. No one is going to answer on the other line.

And you wait.

No one answers.

The time it tides you over is getting shorter and shorter. Less happens in the meantime, except life, and who cares about that? You sit on the edge of your bed, thumb brushing over the screen, the familiar contact staring up at you.

You wish someone would answer.

Turning, you put your phone down. A voice, a simple voice, it was so much to ask. It was never going to happen. You pick up your phone anyways.

You dial the number.

It’s a number that brings pain, and good memories, and sorrow of the deepest kind. It brings tears to your eyes to listen to it ring, but you still do, hope blooming in your heart.

“Hello?”

Your whole world shatters.