ONE LAST CALL
647 Words
(The final whisper before letting go)
I had deleted his photos.
Removed our chats.
Even muted his stories so I wouldn’t see his smile anymore.
But I never deleted his number.
I don’t know why. Maybe a part of me still believed — or hoped — that he would reach out. That there’d be one last message. One last spark of what we once were. One last reminder that it wasn’t all in my head.
But tonight, I broke.
The weight in my chest became too heavy to carry alone.
The silence had stretched too long — it was no longer peaceful; it was punishing.
So I did something I told myself I never would.
I called.
I didn’t rehearse what to say.
I didn’t even think.
I just pressed the call button and prayed the universe wouldn’t punish me for still needing him.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
And then—
“Hello?”
I froze.
My breath caught in my throat, the sound of his voice hitting me like a wave I wasn’t ready to drown in.
He sounded just like I remembered — warm, deep, and a little sleepy, like I had pulled him from a dream I used to belong to.
“…Hi,” I managed to whisper.
Silence.
Then, almost too softly: “Mira?”
I closed my eyes and let the tears fall. He still remembered how to say my name. And it still made my heart tremble.
“I didn’t mean to call,” I lied.
He didn’t challenge me. “I’m glad you did.”
I smiled, bitter and broken. “I just… I couldn’t sleep. And I guess a part of me still wonders if you ever think about me.”
He sighed, and in that exhale was everything we didn’t say when we broke.
“Every day,” he said.
I crumbled.
Tears soaked into my pillow as I held the phone like it was him — like maybe if I clung hard enough, the distance would disappear. That he’d be here again, holding me the way he used to when the world got too loud.
He exhaled — not in relief, but in surrender.
“I loved you,” he said. “And I still do, in pieces I don’t know what to do with.”
That broke me.
That ruined me.
Because I knew it too well.
Loving someone in quiet corners of your heart long after they’ve stopped standing in your light.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said softly. “I just needed to hear you. One last time. Not to reopen wounds. But to remind myself it was real.”
“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was.”
I could feel the goodbye in the air before we said it.
It sat between us like an open suitcase — memories spilling out, too full to carry forward, too precious to leave behind.
“Take care of yourself,” I said.
“You too. I mean it.”
“And when you love again,” I added, “make it soft. Make it sacred.”
“I’ll try,” he promised. “But I don’t think anyone will ever feel like you.”
My heart cracked.
But I smiled.
Because even if we didn’t make it, we were magic once.
And that mattered.
We ended the call.
No dramatic goodbye. No promises of tomorrow. Just two people who once belonged to each other… letting go gently.
I lay in bed afterward, phone still in hand, tears still flowing.
But for the first time in months… they weren’t bitter.
They were soft. Cleansing.
Because closure isn’t always a door slamming shut.
Sometimes, it’s a late-night phone call where you both say what should’ve been said long ago —
and hang up knowing you can finally breathe again.
- Writer
