The phone shivered with its first tentative ring, then burst into an unrelenting, maddening trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the flat like glass. Simon Clarke shut his eyes. It was her, the one with a name straight out of a romance novelEmily. Hed met her only a couple of times, and in a moment of foolish weakness theyd swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? He hadnt heard a single call in weeks; the world seemed to have erased him from its contact list, leaving him alone with that insistent melody and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying to drown out the nagging tone. He wanted to hurl the phone out the window, smash it onto the pavement until it was nothing but shards of glass and plastic. If he couldnt fix his life, he could at least break the thing that tethered him to the outside world.
But the phone would not be silenced.
Simon rose, driven by the sound. The device, as if sensing his approach, rang even louder, almost provocatively. Come on, answer! it seemed to demand. An ancient reflex kicked in, and he lifted the receiver.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree voice cut through the static, its cheerfulness a knife to his ear. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Simon muttered.
Then why did you answer? Emily asked, and Simon imagined her smirking.
Because my nerves arent steel! he growled. Whats so hard to understand? Youre driving me mad with those calls!
I just feel youre at home and that youre struggling, she replied.
And what else do you feel? he snapped, his tone dripping with venom.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he scoffed.
The urge to slam the handset and curse with every vile word rose inside him. Her daily calls for the past three weeks had hit the lowest point of his lifethe period when he wanted nothing: no work, no idle time, no food, no drink. All he craved was to vanish, to evaporate, to stop being a grain of sand in the colossal, indifferent meat grinder of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell, flat and exhausted. What do you want from me? What do you want?
A brief pause hung in the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Dont try to speak for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I can feel
Then stop feeling! his patience snapped. Who do you think you are, some saint, a saviour of lost souls? Go help the old ladies cross the road, feed the stray cats. And leave me alone. Got it?
The silence on the other end thickened, heavy, then a short series of beeps. Emily hung up.
Great, Simon thought, shes the one who never asks to be asked. She sticks her nose where she isnt wanted.
That day no one called. The next day, none. Emily didnt call the following day, the next week, nor the one after.
The silence hed longed for suddenly pressed against his ears, a ringing, absolute, unbearable quiet. It offered no salvationonly solitude. At night he found his gaze lingering on the phone, waiting, a ridiculous, humiliating hope blooming inside him: Now now
He stopped going out in the evenings, terrified of missing a possible ring. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, get angry forever. The word forever frightened him more than the stray dogs that seemed to sniff out his vulnerability.
Soon another need surfaceda desperate urge to speak, to pour out the black, sticky mass that had been building inside. But to whom? A neighbour? He lived a simple life of wages, football and womena happy bloke.
So Simon began talking to himself, aloud. In his empty flat his own voice sounded hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You pushed her away. Roughly, without ceremony.
But she called every day! Relentlessly! Doesnt that mean she cared?
You told her she wasnt needed. You brushed away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, cursed himself. In the end his inner dialogue, his own self, won. It forced him to admit a simple, terrifying truth: those calls were his lifeline. Like a breath for a drowning man, proof that he still existed for someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Emily didnt call.
Simon spent evenings staring at the phone, the silence inside contracting into a single, mute scream. Just call please he whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
He collapsed onto the bed long after midnight, still waiting for a miracle. Sleep dragged him into a restless, jittery dream, and he thought he heard the ring again.
Simon snapped awake. He hadnt been sleeping. The phone rangreal, insistent, alive. He snatched the handset.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hey, the forgotten voice on the other end said, bright as ever. Did you call me?
Simon closed his eyes. A slow smile spread across his face, the first in weeksbitter, weary, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I did.
A pause followed, not the heavy, reproachful one of before, but a tense, stringtight silence, stripped of battle. He could hear her breathing, steady, and his own heart thudding unevenly.
I, he stammered, searching for words that werent excuses or fresh barbsjust truth. Ive been sitting and waiting. Every evening.
I knew, Emilys voice was soft yet firm, without a hint of triumph. I was struggling too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first anymore. Thats your decision to make.
He pictured her, perhaps also phone in hand, battling the urge to dial his number. The image struck him as oddly moving.
Sorry, Simon breathed, the hardest word hed ever managed. It burned his throat like hot coal, yet it had to be said. For being such a tosser.
Accepted, she replied, a faint smile in her tone, forgiving. Though, honestly, I nearly broke the kettle in my fury.
He laughed, a short, relieved chuckle. That mundane, absurd detail snapped him back into reality.
Is he okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill keep him safe as the apple of my eye.
They fell silent again, but now the silence was shared.
Simon Emilys voice grew serious once more. Whats really going on?
He closed his eyes. The question that once would have sparked rage now felt like a strange weakness, a yearning to finally speak.
Everything, he said slowly, sliding down the floor to rest his back against the sofa. Work thats turned into hell. Debts stacking up like a snowball. Feeling like Im walking the edge of a precipice, ready to tumble. And a total emptiness. I feel burnt out from the inside. Nothing I want. No one.
He spoke at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts like a doctor giving 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, the line held only her breathing.
Thank you, Emily finally said. What did you say?
Now you understand why I was out of it? he replied with a bitter grin.
I get it. Its no excuse for the rudeness, she said, her tone firm again. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What are you going to do about it? he asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and 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 starving for it.
Simon obeyed, rising from the floor.
Going, he said.
Good. While you do that, Ill be on the other end of the line. Then well sort out the job, the debts, that abyss youre staring into.
There was no pity in her voice, no babytalk. It was confidence, solid as rock, a strength hed been missing.
Simon walked to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear. He set the kettle boiling, forced the stuck window open, letting in cool air scented with rain and pavement. He took his first small steps toward life.
And he realized it was only the beginninga long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he didnt feel alone in his shattered fortress. A hand reached out from the outside, and he was finally ready to take it.
