The phone rings. You’re half-asleep. You check the screen — unknown number. You answer anyway. You don’t speak first.

Then:

“Hey.”

You hesitate. “Wrong number.”

There’s silence. Then:

“…Right voice.” The breath catches.

It’s been years.

The last time you spoke, you were both wrecked versions of yourselves. There were screaming matches. Half-packed bags. Apologies that came too late, and a door that didn’t quite slam loud enough to match the damage.

He shouldn’t be calling. You shouldn’t still remember what his voice sounds like when it’s quiet like this.

He says your name.

And everything starts to ache again.