The phone shivered with its first timid ring, then erupted into an insistent, endless trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the flat like broken glass. Samuel closed his eyes. It was her again the one whose name seemed lifted from a romance novel, Poppy. Hed met her only a couple of times and, in a moment of foolishness, swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately, no one had called him at all. It was as if the world had erased him from everyones contact list, leaving him alone with that nagging ringtone and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead against the mattress, trying to drown out the maddening buzz. He wanted to hurl the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement until only shards of glass and plastic remained. If he couldnt fix his life, at least he could destroy the thing that tethered him to the outside world.
But the phone would not quiet.
Samuel rose and walked toward the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing even louder, as if daring him. Come on, pick up! it seemed to say. He answered, driven by some ancient reflex.
Hello?
Its me! chirped a bright, carefree voice, cutting through his hearing with its nonchalance. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Samuel growled.
Then why did you answer? Poppy asked, and Samuel imagined a sly smile on her lips.
Because Im not made of steel! he snapped. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are getting on my nerves!
I can feel youre at home and that youre not well, she replied.
And what else do you feel? his tone turned sharp, a venomous mockery.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he snorted.
He wanted to fling the handset across the room and curse her with every filthy word he knew. Those three weeks of daily calls from her had landed at the very bottom of his life, at a time when nothing appealed to him: work, leisure, food, drink. All he craved was to disappear, to evaporate, to cease being a grain in the great, indifferent mill of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly dwindled, flat and exhausted. What do you want from me? What?
A brief silence hung in the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Dont decide for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
I feel it too much! Stop it! his patience snapped. Who are you to feel anything? A saint? A saviour? Go help the elderly cross the road, feed stray cats. And stay out of my business. Got it?
The silence on the other end grew thick, heavy. Then a few short beeps, and Poppy hung up.
Great, Samuel thought. She begged for my attention and got none.
That day she didnt call again. Neither the next day, nor a week later. The silence he had longed for now pressed on his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It offered no rescue, only loneliness. Samuel found himself, each evening, staring at his phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope blossomed inside: maybe now maybe soon
He stopped venturing out at night, terrified of missing a possible ring. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and stay angry forever. The word forever scared him more than the stray dogs that prowled the alley, apparently sensing his vulnerability.
Soon another plague hit the need to speak his mind, to pour out the dark, sticky mass that had been building inside. But to whom? His neighbour? He lived in a simple world of wages, footie and girlsa happy bloke.
So Samuel began talking to himself, out loud, in his empty flat. His voice sounded hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You pushed her away. Roughly, without courtesy.
But she called every day! Persistently! So it mattered to her, didnt it?
You told her she wasnt needed. You brushed away the hand she offered in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, raged at himself. In the end his inner dialogue won. It forced him to admit the simple, grim truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath for a drowning man, proof that someone still thought of him. He wasnt a ghost.
Poppy didnt call.
Samuel spent evenings just watching the phone, a silent scream gathering inside. Please just ring he whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
He collapsed onto the bed well past midnight, still waiting for a miracle. Sleep dragged him into a restless, nervous dream, where he imagined hearing that same ring again.
He jolted awake. He hadnt been asleep. The phone was ringing for real that relentless, living ring. He snatched it up.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hey, came the familiar, almost forgotten voice. Did you call me?
Samuel closed his eyes. A smile, slow and weary, spread across his facethe first in weeks. Bitter, exhausted, yet strangely relieving.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I called.
A pause followed, not the heavy accusation of before but a living, taut silence, like a stretched string without war. He heard her quiet, steady breath and his own uneven heartbeat.
I he stammered, searching for words that werent excuses or fresh barbs, just the plain truth. I sat and waited. Every night.
I knew, she replied, soft yet firm, without a hint of triumph. I was struggling too, but I decided not to be the one who always called first. That should be your choice.
He pictured her, probably holding her phone, battling the urge to dial his number. The image struck him as oddly moving.
Sorry, Samuel breathed, the hardest word hed ever said. It burned his throat like hot coal, yet it had to be spoken. For being such a jerk.
Accepted, her voice softened with a forgiving smile. Although, yes, I almost broke the kettle in frustration.
He laughed, a short, relieved chuckle. That mundane, very real detail snapped him back into reality.
Is he okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill look after him like the apple of my eye.
They fell silent again, but now the silence was shared. They listened together.
Samuel her tone grew serious again. Whats really going on?
Before, that question would have sparked rage. Now it only brought a strange weakness and a desire finally to speak out.
Everything, he said slowly, sliding down to the floor, back against the sofa. Work has turned into hell. Debts have piled up like a snowball. I feel Im walking the edge of a cliff, about to fall. And theres this hollow like Ive burned out inside. I want nothing no work, no food, no people.
He spoke at length, fragmentary, not crying, just stating facts as a doctor would note a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone listened. No interruptions, no advice, no pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When he fell silent, only breathing filled the line.
Thank you, Poppy finally said. What did you say?
Now you understand why I wasnt myself? he asked with a bitter grin.
I do. But that doesnt excuse rudeness, she replied, her tone firm again. At least now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do with that? he asked, curiosity suddenly bright.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen, put the kettle on. When it boils, open a window for at least five minutes. Fresh air does the brain good, and you seem to need it badly.
Samuel obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, he reported.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end. Then well sort out work, debts, that abyss you feel youre in.
Her voice carried no pity, no baby talkjust certainty, solid as rock, and within it lay the strength he had been missing.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and followed her instructions: rattling the kettle, wresting the stuck window open, letting in cool, rainslick air scented with the citys streets. He took his first tiny step forwardtoward life.
And he realised it was only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages, he no longer felt trapped inside his crumbling fortress alone. Someone was reaching out from the outside, and he was finally ready to take that hand.
The lesson was simple: even when the world seems to have silenced you, a single honest connection can reignite the spark you thought was lost, and listeningtruly listeningcan be the first step toward healing.
