A wrong number
He doesn’t answer the phone to unknown callers. But the woman leaves a voicemail, which is how he knows she’s got the wrong number.
Seb, she says. How are you? But perhaps this sounds wrong; she changes her tone.
I don’t know how long it’s been since we last spoke.
I don’t even know if this is still your number.
Traffic in the background. She’s outside, on her own.
Things aren’t good. I don’t know why I felt the need to call and tell you that.
But I always told you everything. Only you.
He imagines her, this unknown woman, drawing her arms in tight.
No one saw me until you. Now I’ve lost you, and everyone’s looking, and I’ve never felt more invisible.
She sniffs. There was an email I never sent.
There were so many things I wish I’d done differently.
She sounds nervous, on the verge of hysterical tears.
‘I’m done’ can mean different things, can’t it?
This conversation is over. Our life is over.
The sound of several slow breaths, like she’s trying to steady herself.
There’s something you should—Her voice cracks.
There’s something I have to—She still can’t say it.
I don’t know how to do this without you.
I don’t know what to do. I thought I’d know who I was without you, but I don’t.
I hoped I’d be over it by now, but I’m not.
And the worst thing is, I don’t know where you are, so I don’t know how to find you.
Or maybe I do, and that’s worse. Maybe I know that you wouldn’t want me to find you, if I did.
The sound of another woman’s muffled voice, a sliding door.
Happy birthday, Seb, the caller says. And—She bites back a sob. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Someone is trying to coax her away from the phone. Everyone needs people, remember? And I need you. So come back to me. Please come back to me.
The voicemail ends. Because it’s a wrong number, the man who received it presses ‘delete’.