It was one of those nights when memories weighed heavier than sleep. Rain tapped softly against the windowpane, the city outside blurred into slow, drowning lights. The room was quiet—only one lamp on, the rest fading into shadows. Just like everything between us.

I sat on the floor next to the coffee table, legs stretched out, phone in my hand. A half-empty glass of wine beside me, forgotten. The music playing in the background meant nothing. I wasn’t listening to it. I was waiting to hear you.

My fingers hesitated before I dialed. I didn’t need to check your number—I never forgot it. Some things stick, no matter how much you want to let them go.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then your voice. Careful. Cold. Guarded.

“Hello?”

It hit me harder than I thought it would. Just that one word. After everything.

“Wrong number,” you said flatly. You didn’t hesitate. I could hear it—the shield in your tone. You were ready. You still didn’t want me to get through. And maybe you had every right.

I thought about the last time we spoke. How you looked at me when the lie slipped out into the open. I told myself it wasn’t a big one. That I was protecting you. But the truth is, I wasn’t. I was protecting myself. From losing you. And I ended up doing it anyway.

I closed my eyes. Let the silence stretch.

Then I smiled. Just a little.

“Right voice,” I whispered.