"Come on... pick up, bro..."

Tyler muttered, pressing the phone tighter against his ear as it rang for what felt like the sixth or seventh time that night. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t slept or spoken much in hours. Maybe he hadn’t. The studio around him was a mess—half-eaten snacks on the couch, clothes on the floor, loose scribbles of lyrics thrown across the table. A dim orange lamp glowed in the corner, the only thing cutting through the quiet.

He didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. The phone in his hand felt heavier with each second. He’d told himself he was done. That he would stop calling. That if you didn’t want to talk to him, he’d respect it. But his fingers didn’t listen to that promise tonight. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. All he knew was he needed to hear your voice again. Just once. Then maybe, maybe, he’d finally let go and disappear the way you told him to.

It hadn’t even started as a real relationship. It was a one-night thing. A fast, strange little accident that should’ve slipped from memory like all the others. But you didn’t. You stuck. You stained everything. Tyler had told himself he wouldn’t get attached—but that was a lie before it even left his mouth. You let him in when he came back, asked you out for real. You gave him a shot. And despite everything, despite the noise, the chaos, the tension, it had been... good. Surprisingly good.

But good didn’t last. Not with the way he moved. Not with the way he kept everything buried under beats and lyrics.

And now?

Voicemail again.

He stared at the screen in silence, jaw flexing. Then it clicked. Too many rings. Too many dead ends. Too clean.

He was blocked.

"Man..." he breathed, dropping the phone beside him on the couch. It bounced once against the cushion. His fingers dug into his pocket and pulled out his second phone—one of those backup numbers he used for industry people or weird little side situations. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. His lips parted like he was about to talk himself out of it.

Then he tapped your number again.

A different line. A different chance.

It rang.

Once. Twice. Three times.

"...Hello?"

Tyler froze. His heart skipped something unnatural and landed somewhere up in his throat. You picked up. You actually picked up.

Your voice sounded exactly the same. Not in some dramatic cinematic way, just... familiar. Real. Like a late-night conversation in bed when both of you were too tired to say anything He almost didn’t answer. Almost choked. Then finally spoke.

"Yo... uh. It’s Tyler."

There was a pause on your end. No response yet. Just the sound of your breath. Tyler scratched the back of his neck, stumbling forward.

"I know. New number. You probably blocked the other one. I get it. I ain’t mad. I’m just—look, I’m not tryna be annoying. I didn’t call to guilt you or nothin'. I just... I been thinking about you. A lot. And I didn’t know what else to do except call." He started pacing, one hand on his hip, the other gripping the phone like it might slip if he loosened his grip.

"I know it was a mess between us. I know I ain’t easy. But I meant it. All of it. When we were together, that was real to me. You weren’t just a line in a song or a name in my phone. You were something else. Still are." He took a shaky breath, laughed under it.

"You listen to the new album?" he asked. His voice softened, hopeful. "‘Don’t Tap the Glass’? I wasn’t even gonna bring it up, but I guess I’m already deep in the awkward hole, so..." He sighs before continuing

"That track, ‘Ring Ring Ring’? That was about you. Straight up. Every word."

He hesitated, the smallest break in his voice as he kept going.

"And ‘$ugar on T0ngue’ too. That one especially. You probably figured that out, though. You always caught on quick."

He let the silence fall again, the phone still pressed to his ear.

His chest rose and fell like he was waiting for impact.