The phone jolts with its first tentative ring, then erupts into a relentless, endless trill. Again?
The sound slices the quiet of the room like glass. James shuts his eyes. Its her again. The one whose name belongs to every romance novelEmma. Theyve only met a couple of times, and on a moment of foolishness he swapped numbers with her. Who else could be calling? No one has phoned him lately. It feels as if the world has erased him from its contact list, leaving him alone with that nagging melody and his own thoughts.
He presses his forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the irritation. He wants to hurl the phone out the window, smash it against the pavement so only shards of glass and plastic remain. If he cant fix his life, at least he can break the thing that ties him to the outside world.
But the phone refuses to quiet down.
James sits up and walks toward the sound. The device, as if sensing his approach, rings even louder, almost provocation. Come on, pick up! it seems to say. He answers, guided by some ancient reflex.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree voice bursts through. It cuts his ears with its nonchalance. Why did you wait so long?
Im busy, James grumbles.
Then why did you answer? Emma asks, and James imagines a sly smile curving her lips.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snarls. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are driving me mad!
I just feel youre at home and that youre not well.
And what else do you feel? his tone turns sharp, venomous.
That youve been waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he snorts.
He wants to slam the handset down, curse with the dirtiest words. The past three weeks of Emmas daily calls have landed at the very bottom of his life, a time when he wants nothing: no work, no leisure, no food, no drink. All he craves is to disappear, to evaporate, to stop being a grain in the indifferent, grinding mill of existence.
Listen, his voice drops, flat and tired. What do you want from me? What do you want?
A brief silence lingers.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop deciding for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
Then stop feeling! Who do you think you are, a saint or a saviour of lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray kittens. And leave me alone. Got it?
The silence in the line thickens, heavy. A couple of beeps follow. She hangs up.
Great, James thinks. Shes the one who begged for it. Shes poking where she isnt wanted.
That day no one calls. The next day, neither does Emma, not after a day, not after a week.
The quiet he coveted suddenly presses against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. There is no salvation in it, only loneliness. In the evenings he catches himself staring at the phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope swells inside: maybe now maybe any second
He stops going out at night, afraid to miss a possible ring. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and stay mad forever. The word forever scares him more than the stray dogs barking from the alley, which seem to sniff out his vulnerability.
Soon a new urge appearsa need to vent. To pour out the black, sticky mass building inside. But to whom? His neighbour? He lives a simple life of salary, football and women. A happy bloke.
James starts talking to himself out loud. In his empty flat his voice sounds hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asks his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her awayroughly, without ceremony.
But she called every day! Persistently! So she must have cared.
You told her she wasnt needed. You pushed away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argues, defends, gets angry at himself. Eventually his inner voicehis own Iwins. It forces him to admit a simple, ugly truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath of air for a drowning man, proof that someone still sees him. That he isnt a ghost.
Emma doesnt call.
James spends evenings just watching the phone. Inside, everything contracts into one silent scream. Please just call, he whispers.
The phone stays mute.
He collapses onto the bed well past midnight, still waiting for a miracle. He drifts into a restless, nervous sleep and imagines hearing that ring again.
He snaps awake. He isnt dreaming. The phone rings for realpersistent, alive. He grabs the handset.
Hello? his voice trembles.
Hey, a familiar voice replies, the one hes almost forgotten. Did you call me?
James closes his eyes. A smile spreads across his face, the first in weeksbitter, weary, yet oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhales. I think I did.
A pause follows, not the heavy, accusatory one from before, but a living, taut pause like a stretched string, void of battle. He hears her quiet, steady breathing and his own thudding heart.
I he stumbles, searching for words that arent excuses or fresh barbs. Just words. Truth. Ive been sitting here, waiting. Every night.
I knew, Emmas voice is soft yet sure, without a hint of triumph. I was also struggling. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first any more. That decision had to be yours.
He imagines her, perhaps also holding a phone, fighting the urge to dial his number. The picture feels oddly moving.
Im sorry, he sighs. Its the hardest word, burning his throat like hot coal, yet he must say it. For acting like a fool.
Accepted, she says, a light smile audible. Though, yes, I was rude. I almost broke the kettle in my frustration.
He chuckles involuntarily, short and relieved. The mundane, lived detail snaps him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asks, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill keep him as precious as the pupil of my eye.
They fall silent again, but now the silence is shared. They listen together.
James her tone turns serious again. Whats really happening?
He closes his eyes. Before, this question would have sparked rage. Now he feels a strange weakness and a need to finally speak his mind.
Everything, he says slowly, sliding onto the floor, his back against the sofa. Work has turned into hell. Debts have piled up like a snowball. I feel like Im teetering on a cliff, about to fall. And an emptiness as if Ive burned out inside. I want nothing. No one.
He talks at length, fragmented, not crying, just stating facts like a doctor giving a diagnosis. For the first time in months someone listenswithout interrupting, without advice, without the usual pull yourself together or things will get better. Just listening.
When he stops, the line holds only breathing.
Thank you, Emma finally says. What did you say?
Now you understand why I was out of it? he replies with a bitter grin.
I do. But thats no excuse for my rudeness, she answers firmly. At least now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asks, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she says decisively, go to the kitchen, put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window for at least five minutes. Fresh air is vital for the brain, and you seem to be short on it.
James obeys, rising from the floor.
Im going, he tells her.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end of the line. Afterwards well sort out work, the debts, that abyss youre staring into.
Her voice carries no pity, no saccharine tonejust confidence, solid as rock, a strength hes been missing.
He shuffles to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, turns on the kettle, wrestles the stubborn window open, letting in cool, rainscented air that smells of wet cobblestones. He takes those tiny steps forwardtoward life.
And he realises this is only the beginning: a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he doesnt feel trapped in his crumbling fortress. Someone is reaching out from the outside, and he finally feels ready to take that hand.
