Fingers hover, heart stuttering over the final digit. The name on the screen is a ghost, yet deleting it feels like a second death. Your pupils flood with memories. You see the number and can’t look away.
If you call, no one answers. Death has no cell service. Yet, the body is stubborn. It waits for a vibration, a “Hello,” or a sign that the silence isn't absolute. You want to tell them the trivial things: it rained today; you still break every egg yolk; you still laugh awkwardly.
Dialing is like watering a dead plant. You don’t expect a bloom. You just refuse to forget the life it once held. It is an act of love and absurdity. You keep making space for them on the shelves of your heart, terrified that if you stop, they will truly vanish.
You wonder if they would do the same. If you were the one gone, would they search the corners of their life for you? There is ego in the question, but it keeps you alive: the hope that in that endless forever, there will be a corner with your name.
The screen goes dark and the face you imagined on the other side disappears. They will never see who you’ve become.
But you remain there.
With your eyes full.
With your throat full.
And your hands empty.
Romi H. has been writing since she was 14 years old. She began with poetry before moving into poetic prose. At 23, she started a Substack, where she built a community of 20,000 subscribers. She is currently working on her first fantasy novel.
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