London never slept.
Or maybe it did—and I was the only one awake.
The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 3:47 a.m. again. I hadn't slept. Not really. My body was exhausted, heavy, but my mind refused to shut down.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at my phone like it could answer questions I didn't know how to ask.
Jay.
Her name sat in my chest, unmoving, like it had always been there.
I hadn't planned to call her.
I told myself that a hundred times.
I stood up, paced the apartment, stopped by the window. The city lights blurred below, distant and cold. Nine years. I had survived nine years without her voice.
So why now?
My phone felt heavier in my hand.
I unlocked it.
Her number was still there.
Of course it was.
I stared at it longer than I should have, thumb hovering. Pride whispered that it was too late. Fear told me she wouldn't answer. Something worse told me she would—and I wouldn't know what to say.
I pressed the call button.
It rang once.
Twice.
I ended the call before it could connect.
My heart pounded like I'd just done something reckless.
"Idiot," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.
I dropped onto the couch and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Say something. Anything.
I opened the voicemail recorder.
The red dot blinked.
Recording.
Silence stretched.
My throat tightened.
"Jay…" My voice came out rough, unfamiliar. I stopped. Deleted it.
I tried again.
"I don't know if you'll hear this."
Pause.
Deleted.
I exhaled sharply, frustration burning behind my eyes.
What was I even trying to do? Apologize? Explain? Ask her if she had moved on—if she loved him?
I swallowed.
The tablet on the nightstand caught my eye. I ignored it.
I hit record again.
"Jay," I said quietly. "It's me."
My chest tightened.
"I saw the news." A pause. "You look… fine."
That word tasted wrong.
"I won't take much of your time." My fingers curled into my palm. "I just—"
Another pause.
"I just needed to know you're okay."
I closed my eyes.
That was a lie.
I needed to know if I still mattered.
The silence after my words felt too loud.
I ended the recording.
My thumb hovered over send.
Nine years ago, I had walked away without explaining. Without apologizing. I had told myself she'd be better off.
Maybe this was proof she was.
I locked my phone and tossed it onto the couch.
The voicemail stayed unsent.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling again, chest aching, eyes burning, sleep nowhere in sight.
Outside, the city kept breathing.
And somewhere far away, the girl I never stopped loving might never hear my voice again.
Morning came without sleep.
Grey light crept through the curtains, dull and unforgiving. I sat at the edge of the bed, jacket already on, phone cold in my hand. The city outside looked the same as always—busy, indifferent.
Nothing had changed.
Except me.
I opened my laptop, fingers moving on instinct. Flights. Times. Availability. I didn't let myself think too much about it. Thinking led to hesitation. Hesitation led to doing nothing.
And I was done doing nothing.
A boarding pass appeared on the screen.
Soon.
Not today's questions. Not yesterday's regrets. Just motion.
I shut the laptop and stood, breathing out slowly. Wherever this was going to take me—whatever I was about to face—I couldn't stay here anymore, counting hours I never slept through.
I picked up my phone.
The voicemail was still there.
Unsent.
Unheard.
I didn't delete it.
Instead, I slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and walked out without looking back.
Some things didn't need closure yet.
Some things just needed courage.
Jay
The notification appeared while I was signing documents.
1 new voicemail.
My pen paused mid-signature.
The office was quiet. Too quiet. The city hummed outside the glass walls, distant and alive. I stared at the screen longer than necessary, my reflection faintly visible in the dark surface.
Voicemail.
I already knew.
I locked the phone and slid it aside.
"Later," I whispered to no one.
Work filled the hours. Meetings blurred together. Conversations came and went. I nodded, spoke, decided—everything expected of me. Everything I was good at.
But the phone felt heavier every time I glanced at it.
When evening came, the office lights dimmed. One by one, floors emptied. I stayed.
Finally, alone, I unlocked the phone again.
The voicemail icon waited patiently.
I pressed it.
Then stopped.
My finger hovered.
Some voices had the power to undo years of control in a single second.
I turned the phone face down and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Somewhere, someone was moving closer.
And here I was—still deciding whether I was ready to listen.