His Voice In My Night

Clara Brooks detested the way her front door slammed shut behind her. It wasn't the click of safety or the padded thud of privateness. It was a clatter—noisy, jerky, and final. As if it was shutting her in, not the rest of the world out. She tossed her keys into the shattered white ceramic bowl on the end table and released a breath as though she had been storing it up since morning. Which, indeed, she had. Rush-hour driving across Brooklyn was an Olympic sport in frustration, and her anxiety still hummed through her veins like lingering subway energy. She peeled off her shoes without even glancing, one thudding against the leg of a chair, the other bouncing to the couch. Her socks were damp at the toes. Her bag slid from her shoulder and sat in the corner as if it knew better than to demand attention right now. The apartment was quiet except for the whir of the fridge and the intermittent creak of the radiator, which had started causing problems all over again since the bogus spring storm last weekend. She crept past the doorway and collapsed into the armchair in front of the window, the one she'd picked up off the sidewalk in Park Slope and reupholstered with a staple gun and a curse. Her computer sat on the coffee table, screen dormant, still open. On the floor beneath it lay a jumbled mess of UX wireframes—basic concepts for a freelance project she didn't have the energy to work on all week. The table was littered with two empty mugs, a shattered highlighter, and the remains of a chocolate bar she swore she was going to leave untouched. But she did not go towards the laptop or the mess. She went towards her phone. One new message. Her heart beat faster as she clicked open the secret chat application. She never got pings from anyone else on it—not ever. There, in that neat black window, was the only name that mattered. (Reed_Art): voice message, 1m 06s. Clara changed position on the chair, threw the blanket over her knees, and pressed play. "Hey," his low, measured voice came over the line, "just calling to say hello. You were… kinda quiet today." She closed her eyes. His voice did this to her—like a switch had been flipped she didn't even know was set so far inside of her. It wasn't what he was saying. It was how he was saying it. Like every word counted. Like silence was something worthy of respect, not to be filled. "I don't want to think anything's wrong," she continued, "but if you need to talk, or vent, or just sit in the dark and listen to me drivel on and on about Vermont all over again… I'm here. I'm up tonight." She waited. No punchline. No punchline at all. Just that: I'm here. Clara swallowed hard and composed her response before she could overthink it. (Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired.) She looked at the blinking cursor. Fragmented, mechanical. She deleted it, started over. Her thumb rested over the symbol for mic. She could give him her voice—once. Let him hear her. But the thought made her wriggle with shame. She wrote instead: (Rough day. But hearing from you helps). She sent it. A small, fluttering rush went through her chest when the message was sent. Not because of what she'd written, but because he'd read it in seconds. The "seen" checkmark materialized like a little spark. She leaned her head against the back of the chair and allowed her gaze to follow the patterns of the ceiling. The apartment was shadowed now, one lamp with a flickering bulb throwing shadows. Outside, the city hummed—the sound of a horn, the soft scrape of tires over wet pavement. Her roommate Savannah would probably still be out, working behind the bar or lost in the bed of someone else. Clara didn't mind. She liked the silence. She pulled her knees together, holding her arms around them with the blanket, and reopened the chat window. She scrolled back through their history, reading ancient messages. (Reed_Art): "If you had to give up one of your senses, which would you lose?" (Hers): "Smell. No big deal. I live in NYC. It's a blessing." (Reed_Art): "True. I'd lose taste. I'm already a terrible cook." She smiled. There were voice messages, too. Dozens. Some short and informal—him talking about the trees outside his cabin window or some awkward mishap at the supermarket. Others dragged on longer, sidetracking into diatribes on art, solitude, the cost of attention. She didn't know what his real name was. She didn't know what he looked like. He told her he spent "part-time off-grid" and had a studio in Vermont. The rest remained a mystery. And strangely, Clara approved of his secrets. It kept the whole thing. neater. More streamlined. She did not have to contend with expectations or appearance or how people thought of her. She could merely speak. And be heard. Another message arrived. (Reed_Art): “Tell me something you’re not supposed to miss.” Her fingers hovered. She wasn’t sure how to answer that. She closed the app and set her phone down, face-down, on the couch. She stood up and walked over to the window. The rain covered the street outside, the lamp light gleaming in pieces of broken gold. A figure beneath the canopy of a man stood smoking under the awning of the deli at the corner. There were still Christmas lights up on the fire escape of the building opposite. Brooklyn had no idea how to let things go. Neither did she. She returned to the couch and tugged up the blanket again. For a while, she sat there quietly, letting the weight of the night fall around her like dust. Then, gently, she reached for her phone and began to type: (Tell me about Vermont.) She sent it. The application sat open, the screen gently radiating in the dark room. She waited a few minutes, then turned out the lamp and left the apartment to darkness. She lay in bed, not getting in fully, one leg still over the side, blanket pulled high up around her hips. She did not sleep. Her mind buzzed with things left unsaid. Questions she had not asked. What he had been trying to tell her when he said he preferred being invisible. Just when her eyes were finally closing, the phone buzzed once more. Another text. She slowly picked up the phone. The message was short. ((Do you trust me?)) She looked at the letters, her breath caught half-way to her lungs. She didn't reply. She didn't sleep.