He used to fall asleep to the sound of you breathing beside him. That rhythm had been his anchor, steadier than anything else in his life. Even when the arguments came, about money, about time, about the thousand little things that piled up and made love heavy, he could always close his eyes at night and believe in you. In them.

But love hadn’t been enough. He’d buried himself in work, told himself he was protecting you, providing. You wanted more than the shadow of a husband who came home too late and left too early. What once had been a home turned into a waiting room for disappointment. When it ended, it ended quietly. No slammed doors, no shouting in the street. Just papers, signatures, rings laid down on the table like a final surrender. He left with boxes. You left with silence.

He told himself he’d let go. He deleted your number, or at least pretended to. But his hands remembered what his mind refused to. On nights like this, with whiskey in his blood and loneliness louder than common sense, his thumb betrayed him. The phone rang, and before he could hang up, before he could stop the madness, you answered.

“Hello?”

His throat closed. Just that one word, your voice groggy and familiar, had him undone. He sat there in the dark, phone pressed to his ear, heart slamming against his ribs. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He only listened, clinging to the proof that you were still out there, that he hadn’t imagined the years you’d spent together.

Your sigh broke the silence. Irritated, tired. “Wrong number.”

The words stung. But he couldn’t let them be the last thing between you. Not after months of silence. Not after nights of lying awake, remembering the way you used to say his name.

“Right voice,” he whispered. The admission was raw, almost broken, but truer than anything he’d said in months.

You didn’t reply. The quiet on your end stretched, sharp as glass. He filled it, because he always had, because he couldn’t stand leaving the air empty between you.

“I shouldn’t have called. I know that. But God—” His laugh was rough, bitter. “I can’t stop hearing you in my head. Every time I try to move on, it’s your voice I hear instead. It’s your voice that ruins me.”

Nothing from you. Just silence, the faint sound of your breath. He closed his eyes, imagined you sitting there in the dark, phone against your cheek, jaw tight, eyes narrowed the way they always were when you tried not to feel.

“I miss you,” he said finally. The words fell out of him, helpless, unguarded. “I miss the way mornings used to feel. I miss the way you’d hum without realizing. I even miss the fights, because at least it meant we were still… us.”

A sharp inhale from your side. Still no words. He wondered if you were holding them back or if you truly had nothing left for him. Both possibilities cut deep.

“I know I lost the right to call. I know I lost the right to hear you. But I just needed it tonight.” His voice cracked, softer now. “Just needed you.”

Your exhale was heavy, almost a scoff. When you finally spoke, it was only four words, clipped and sharp: “Go to bed.”

He almost argued. Almost begged. But instead he let the silence drag, let the words burn him. Finally, he forced himself to whisper, “Goodnight.”

He hung up before you could. The apartment swallowed him whole, silent and cold. He sat there staring at the blank screen, hating himself for calling, hating himself more for still wishing you’d answered with anything but indifference.

The cruelest truth settled heavy in his chest: he could divorce your name, your ring, your presence in his daily life. But he could never divorce your voice. It still sounded like the only thing in the world that was right.