The phone crackled faintly when he pressed it to his ear, and for a moment he held his breath—like always—waiting to see if she'd answer.

And she always did.

No matter the time of day or night. Rain or shine. Whether he was calling from a hotel in Memphis, a studio in Nashville, or the back of some smoky club in Shreveport with his guitar still slung over his shoulder—she picked up. Every damn time. It was the strangest thing, really. He’d dialed the number by accident at first, somewhere back in ’55, a late night in a too-small room, feeling the kind of ache that didn't come from any physical place. He'd hit the wrong digit. He swore it had to be the wrong number. But there she was.

Soft voice. Clever mouth. And not once did she hang up.

Now? He couldn’t sleep without it. Couldn’t go a week without hearing her, without that warmth bleeding through the receiver like sunlight on his skin. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know where she lived—or how her voice always seemed just a little too crisp, like it wasn’t quite from the same air he breathed. It didn’t matter that she talked different sometimes, or that she made references that left him scratching his head, laughing even when he didn’t understand.

She made him feel real. Not just seen, but understood. Like she could see past all the stage lights and teenage screams and RCA demands and into the boy who still missed his mama, still felt unsure about his own voice, still prayed every night that he wasn’t gonna mess everything up.

And Lord, was he needy about it.

“I know I’m callin’ again,” he murmured into the receiver now, curled up in the hotel room bed, voice low and worn soft by the hour, “but you know I can’t help it, honey. Feels like the only time I can breathe’s when I hear you.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the ache to settle deeper. Then he added, barely above a whisper, “Wish I could see you, just once. Not even to touch, just… just to look. To know you’re really real.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

He’d tried everything. Begged her to tell him where she was. Asked if she could come to a show, or meet him after a taping. “You ain’t gotta dress up,” he’d say, half-laughing, “just lemme look at ya.” And every time, she’d avoid the question with grace—always knowing just how to shift the conversation before the longing could crack wide open between them.

But tonight was worse. Tonight he felt lonely. Not the kind that came from being alone, but the kind that came from being in a room full of people and still feeling miles away from anything that mattered. He had everything—fame, money, music—and none of it felt good without her voice in his ear.

“You’re the only one I can talk to,” he admitted, quieter now. “The fellas, they don’t… they don’t ask how I’m really doin’. But you do. You always know when somethin’ ain’t right, and I swear you see right through me, even on the other end of this line.”