The phone shivered with its first tentative ring, then burst into an insistent, endless trill. Again?
The sound cut through the quiet of the flat like a cold shard of glass. Simon closed his eyes. It was her again the one with a name straight out of a romance novel, Milly. Hed only met her a couple of times, and in a moment of foolishness and fleeting weakness theyd swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? No one had rung him up of late. 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 buried his face in the pillow, trying to drown out the relentless buzz. He halfthought about hurling the phone out the window, smashing it on the pavement so only a heap of glass and plastic remained. If you cant fix your life, you can at least destroy the thing that ties you to the outside world.
But the phone kept on.
Simon sat up and walked toward the noise. The device, as if sensing his approach, rang even louder, almost defiantly. Come on, answer it! it seemed to shout. He answered on some ancient reflex.
Hello?
Its me! chirped a bright, carefree voice, slicing through the silence with its nonchalance. Why the delay?
Im busy, Simon grunted.
So why did you pick up? Milly asked, and Simon could swear she was smiling slyly.
Because my nerves arent steel! he growled, halfsnarling. Whats so hard to understand? Your calls are getting on my nerves!
I just feel youre at home and that youre not well.
And what else do you feel? his reply was edged with bitter, poisonous sarcasm.
I was waiting for you to call.
Me? Waiting?! he scoffed.
He wanted to fling the handset across the room and curse in the most colourful language imaginable. Those three weeks of Millys daily calls had landed squarely at the rock bottom of his life a time when nothing seemed worth doing: work, leisure, eating, drinking. All he wanted was to vanish, to melt away, to stop being a speck in the massive, indifferent meat grinder of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly dropped, 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 think for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
Just stop feeling! Who do you think you are, some saint or saviour of lost souls? Go help the elderly cross the road, feed stray cats. And from meleave me alone. Got it?
The silence on the other end thickened, heavy. Then a short, sharp buzz. Milly hung up.
Well, isnt that grand, Simon thought. She sticks her nose where she isnt asked.
That day she didnt call again. Nor the next. Milly didnt ring a day, a week, a fortnight later. The silence hed been craving now pressed against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It held no salvation, only loneliness. In the evenings he found his eyes lingering on the phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope sprouted inside him: maybe now maybe any minute now
He even stopped going out at night, fearing hed miss a call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and stay angry forever. The word forever frightened him more than the stray dogs that seemed to sniff out his vulnerability from the alley.
Later a new torment arriveda need to get something off his chest. To pour out that black, sticky mass simmering inside. But to whom? The neighbour? He lived a simple life of wages, football and womena happy bloke.
So Simon began talking to himself, out loud, in his empty flat. His voice sounded hollow and odd.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You pushed her awayroughly and without ceremony.
But she called every day! Persistently! So she must have cared, right?
You told her she wasnt needed. You slapped away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, raged at himself. In the end his inner dialoguehis own Iwon. It forced him to admit a simple, chilling 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.
Milly didnt call.
Simon spent evenings staring at the phone. Inside, everything shrank into a huge, mute scream. Please, just call he whispered.
The phone stayed silent.
He collapsed into bed well past midnight, never seeing a miracle. He slipped into a restless, jittery sleep, and thought he heard that same ringing again.
He snapped awake. He hadnt been asleep. The phone was ringingreal, insistent, alive. He snatched the handset.
Hello? his voice quivered.
Hi, came the familiar, slightly forgotten voice. Did you call me?
Simon closed his eyes. A smile crept across his face, the first in weeks bitter, weary, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I did.
There was a pausenot the heavy, accusing one from before, but a lively, taut pause, like a string pulled taut but not broken. He could hear her calm breathing and his own heart thumping unevenly.
I, he stammered, searching for words that werent excuses or new barbs just plain truth. Ive been sitting here, waiting. Every night.
I knew, she said, her voice soft yet sure, without any triumph. Id been feeling awful too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to ring first any more. Thats your decision now.
He imagined her, probably also clutching a phone, wrestling with the urge to dial his number. The picture struck him as oddly touching.
Sorry, Simon breathed out. It was the hardest word hed said in ages, burning his throat like a hot coal, but it had to be said. For acting like a twit.
Accepted, her voice held a light, forgiving smile. Even though, yeah, I nearly broke the kettle in my frustration.
He laughed involuntarily, a short, relieved chuckle. That everyday, ridiculous detail snapped him back into reality.
Is he okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill keep him safe as the jewel of my eye.
They fell silent again, but now the silence was shared. They listened together.
Simon her tone grew serious again. Whats happening? Really?
He closed his eyes. Earlier that question would have sparked rage. Now it only brought a strange weakness and a desire to finally unload.
Everything, he said slowly, sliding down onto the floor, back against the sofa. Work has turned into hell. Debts are piling up like a snowball. I feel like Im teetering on a cliff edge, about to tumble. And theres this huge emptiness, as if Ive burned out from the inside. I want nothing. No one.
He talked at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts like a doctor delivering 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 finally fell silent, the line was filled only with breathing.
Thank you, Milly finally said. For everything you said.
Now you see why I was off my rocker? he replied with a bitter grin.
I do. But thats no excuse for the rudeness, she said firmly. At least now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asked, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she said decisively, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open the windowjust for five minutes. Fresh air is essential for the brain, and youre clearly short on that.
Simon obliged, rising from the floor.
Im going, he announced.
Good. While you do that, Ill be on the other end of the line. After that well sort out work, the debts, that cliff youve been standing on.
There was no pity, no coddling in her voicejust solid confidence, as sturdy as a stone wall. In that certainty lay the strength hed been missing.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and followed her instructions: he set the kettle on, wrestled with a stubborn window that finally gave way, letting in rainscented, asphalttinged air. He took those first small steps toward life.
And he understood that this was only the beginninga long, tough conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages, he didnt feel alone in his crumbling fortress. Someone was extending a hand from the outside, and at last, he was ready to take it.
