The phone screen glowed
blue against the pillow.
She watched the call ring
— once, twice — then
cut to voicemail.
His voice, distant and
clipped:
"Hey, it's me. Busy day. Call you back."
She listened to it
again. And again. Her
throat tightened with each
replay, the words wearing
thin like a song
overplayed.
She set the phone
face-down on the
mattress. The room hummed
with an empty frequency —
the fridge downstairs,
the traffic outside, the
hollow space beside her.
Her pillow darkened in a
slow, spreading patch.
She pressed her face into
it and let the static
fill her ears until sleep
finally pulled her under.