The phone shivered at the first timid ring, then burst into an urgent, endless trill. Again?
The sound sliced the quiet of the room like broken glass. Samuel closed his eyes. It was her again the one whose name seemed lifted straight from a romance novel Evelyn. Hed met her only twice, and in a moment of foolish weakness theyd swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately nobody had called him; it was as if the world had erased him from its address book, leaving him alone with the relentless melody and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying to drown out the intrusive tone. He wanted to fling the handset out the window, smash it on the pavement until only shards of glass and plastic remained. If you cant mend a life, you can at least break the cord that ties it to the outside.
But the phone would not quiet.
Samuel rose and followed the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing louder, almost daring him. Come on, answer! it seemed to shout, and some ancient reflex made him pick up.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, youthful voice chirped, slicing the air with careless cheer. Why did it take you so long?
Im busy, Samuel muttered.
Then why did you pick up? Evelyn asked, a sly smile curling in his mind.
Because Im not made of steel! he growled, halfroaring. Whats the problem? Your calls are driving me mad!
I can feel youre at home that youre hurting.
What else do you feel? his tone turned sharp, venomtinged.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he snorted.
He wanted to slam the handset down, curse with the foulest words. The past three weeks of her daily rings had fallen on the lowest point of his life, the period when nothing appealed: work, idleness, food, drink. All he wanted was to vanish, to evaporate, to cease being a grain of sand in the indifferent grind of existence.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell, flat and weary. What do you want from me?
Silence lingered a heartbeat.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop talking for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel!
Then stop feeling! His patience snapped. Who are you to feel anything? A saint? A saviour of lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. Leave me alone.
The quiet in the line thickened, then a brief buzz. She hung up.
Great, just perfect, a thought flickered. She begs herself, sticks her nose where it isnt asked.
That day no one called again. Neither the next. Evelyn stayed silent for days, then weeks.
And the silence hed craved pressed hard against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. It held no rescue, only solitude. In the evenings his gaze lingered on the phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope grew inside him: maybe now maybe soon
He stopped leaving the flat at dusk, fearing he might miss a possible call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, be hurt forever. The word forever frightened him more than the stray dogs that prowled the alley, as if they could sniff his vulnerability.
Then a new torment arrived the need to speak it all out, to pour the black, sticky mass inside him onto someone. But who? A neighbour? He lived a simple life of wages, football and women a happy bloke.
So Samuel began talking to himself, aloud, in the empty flat. His voice sounded hollow, unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away. Roughly, without thought.
But she called every day! Persistently! That meant she cared, didnt it?
And you told her she wasnt needed. You shoved away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argued, proved, cursed himself. In the end his inner dialogue, his own I, won. It forced him to admit a simple, chilling truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath for a drowning man, proof that he still existed for someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Evelyn didnt call.
Samuel spent evenings simply staring at the phone. Inside, everything compressed into a mute scream. Please, just call he whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
He collapsed onto the bed long after midnight, still waiting for a miracle. Sleep dragged him into a jittery, nervous dream, and he thought he heard that same ring again.
He snapped awake. He wasnt dreaming. The phone rang, truly, that relentless, living ring. He grabbed the handset.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hi, came the familiar, now forgotten voice. Did you call me?
Samuel closed his eyes. A smile spread slowly across his face the first in weeks. Bitter, tired, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I did.
A pause followed, not the heavy, accusatory one of before, but a living, taut pause, like a stretched string, free of battle. He heard her quiet, even breathing, and his own heart thudding unevenly.
I he faltered, searching for words that wouldnt be excuses or fresh barbs, just truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, her voice was soft but sure, without a hint of triumph. I felt bad too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to ring first any more. That should be your choice.
He pictured her, perhaps also holding a phone, wrestling with the urge to dial his number. The image struck him as strangely touching.
Sorry, he breathed, the hardest word, scorching his throat like hot coal, yet necessary. For acting like a fool.
Accepted, she replied, a light, forgiving smile in her tone. Though yes, I almost broke the kettle in my frustration.
He laughed involuntarily, brief and relieved. The mundane, alive detail snapped him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asked, suddenly serious.
Fine. Ill guard him like the apple of my eye.
They fell silent together, but now the silence was shared.
Samuel her voice turned serious again. Whats happening? Really.
He closed his eyes. Earlier that question would have sparked rage; now it only brought a strange weakness and a desire to finally speak out.
Everything. And nothing, he said, sliding down onto the floor, leaning against the sofa. Work turned into hell. Debts piled up like a snowball. I feel like Im teetering on a cliff, ready to fall. And an empty void, as if Ive burned out inside. I want nothing. No one.
He talked at length, in fragments, not sobbing, just stating facts as a doctor would note a diagnosis. For the first time in months someone listened without interrupting, without advice, without the usual pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When he finally fell quiet, the line held only breath.
Thank you, Evelyn finally said. For saying it.
Now you understand why I was out of sorts? he asked with a bitter grin.
I do. But thats no excuse for rudeness, she returned, firm again. Now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asked, curiosity sparking.
For a start, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window. Just five minutes. Fresh air is essential for the brain, and you seem to be starving for it.
Samuel obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, he said.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end of the line. After that well sort out the job, the debts, that abyss youre staring into.
Her voice carried no pity, no sugarcoating, only solid confidence, as firm as rock. In that certainty lay the strength he had been lacking.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, set the kettle to boil, wrestled with the stuck window, finally letting in cool, rainscented air that tasted of asphalt and London streets. He took those first small steps toward life.
And he realised it was only the beginning a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he didnt feel alone in his crumbling fortress. Someone was extending a hand from the outside, and he was finally ready to take it.
