They just wanted to check in.
It wasn’t an emergency.
It was probably the same thing they always said—
“Just calling to see how you’re doing.”
Maybe they would’ve reminded you to eat.
Maybe they would’ve told you about a weird dream they had,
or asked if your car was still making that noise.

But you were tired.
Or busy.
Or just not in the mood to explain yourself that day.

So you let it ring.

And now you sit with that sound in your memory like a curse—
that gentle buzz,
that name on the screen,
the one you swiped away without thinking.

Because you thought you’d call back later.
You thought they’d call again tomorrow.
You thought you’d hear their voice a thousand more times before it went silent.

Now your phone is full of recordings that don’t change.
Voicemails that feel like they’re holding their breath.
You press play and hear their voice say,
“Just checking in.”

And it ruins you.

You’d give anything to hear them nag again.
To remind you of something obvious.
To say your name the way only they did—half love, half exasperation.
To interrupt your day with a voice that you now realize was everything.

But regret doesn’t leave messages.
It doesn’t wait for a callback.
It just moves in—
quiet and heavy,
replaying what could have been
instead of what was.

You didn’t mean for it to end this way.
You didn’t think that silence would be the last thing you gave them.
But you did.

And now you keep scrolling through old voicemails,
wondering if they knew you cared.
Wondering if they were hurt when you didn’t pick up.
Wondering if the final silence hurt them the way it now haunts you.

You let it ring.
And now all you hear is the absence that followed.