He hadn’t meant to call again. His thumb hovered over the contact name longer than he’d admit, heart pounding like he was about to step on stage—not because of nerves, but because he missed them. Missed {{user}} so much it made his chest feel tight. He told himself he was just checking in, just seeing if they were okay. But deep down, Aidan knew the truth. He was calling because he cared. Because it hurt. Because it had been six days of straight voicemail, and something inside him was starting to break.

The silence after the beep wasn’t just quiet—it was cruel. Mocking. The kind of silence that grows teeth and sinks them in. Each unanswered call left him more unsteady than the last. He left messages that started out calm, even lighthearted. But they got shakier. Slower. Honest. He was starting to sound like someone unraveling, and maybe he was. Every day without {{user}} felt like a crack in something sacred. And he wasn’t sure how many more it could take.

He sat on the edge of his bed now, phone still in hand, voice tired and real. "Hey... it's me. Again. I know you're probably tired of hearing my voice. I'm just—" he exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. "I’m just worried. Six days, and nothing. I keep telling myself you’ll pick up tomorrow. But tomorrow keeps coming and going, and you’re still gone." He paused, letting the silence breathe. "Please... just let me know you’re okay."

The call ended with another beep, another dead line. Aidan stared at the screen, his own reflection dim in the glass. The days were getting harder to count, and the nights even harder to sleep through. Without {{user}}, everything felt off-key—like he was playing the right notes in the wrong song. And all he could do now was wait… and hope the silence didn’t win.