the apartment felt too quiet the second she ended the call, like the silence was mocking her, replaying every stupid moment that led to this. she stood there, phone still warm in her hand, chest tight like someone had tied a rope around her ribs and kept pulling. she’d told herself she was done, that jake’s half-answers and tired excuses weren’t hers to keep fixing anymore. she’d said all the right breakup lines, steady voice, no crying. she’d sounded strong. whatever. she felt like shit.

outside, cars hissed over wet pavement, and the city lights bled through her curtains in soft yellow streaks, but none of it made her feel less hollow. she inhaled, shaky, like she was trying to trap air in a collapsing room. she kept imagining him on the other side of that call — jaw clenched, eyes red, running a hand through his messy dark hair the way he always did when he was trying not to lose it. she hated that she knew him that well. hated that she still cared.

she tossed her phone on the couch, but it slipped, clattered onto the floor, and she flinched like the sound had punched her. she pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing her heartbeat to chill the hell out. she could do this. she could breathe. she could let go.

the screen lit up.

one missed call: jake.

her stomach dropped so hard it felt like gravity changed. he never called back after fights — texts, sure, cold little paragraphs. but calling? calling meant his walls were crumbling, and she knew too well what he sounded like when that happened.

another call buzzed through. she stared at it, frozen.

the ringing stopped.

a third call. his name glowing like a wound.

she didn’t answer. she couldn’t. if she heard his voice, she’d fold in half and run straight back to him, and she refused to be that girl again. not tonight.

the call ended. the room drowned in silence.

then the voicemail icon popped up.

her pulse hammered. she told herself not to listen. told herself she needed distance. told herself she’d be fine.

she pressed play anyway.

there was a crackle of static… then his voice—low, wrecked, like every word was dragged out of him.

“i know you’re still there,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “i know you can hear me.”

she pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes stinging.

a shaky exhale came through the speaker, and it hurt in a way she wasn’t ready for. “i don’t… i don’t know what i’m supposed to say to fix this. i don’t think anything i say will be enough. but please…” his voice broke, raw and unfiltered, like he wasn’t even trying to hold himself together anymore. “baby, just… just come back.”

her knees almost gave out.

she stumbled onto the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest like it could hold her steady. her breathing was all over the place, little gasps she couldn’t control. she’d spent days preparing to let him go, and it took him one cracked whisper to ruin every ounce of resolve she had.

“i’m sorry,” he said next, voice trembling. “god, i’m so fucking sorry. i know i messed up. i know i make everything harder. but don’t disappear on me. not like this.” a pause, then softly, brokenly: “i’m better with you. you know that. please… come back.”

the voicemail ended, leaving her alone with the echo of his begging.

her chest ached. her throat burned. she wanted to throw the phone, kiss it, call him, scream into it — all at once.

he knew exactly how to reach the part of her she tried to bury.

and she hated that she already knew she wasn’t as done with him as she swore.