The Last Call

Maggie had been running for three weeks. Not literally — though the way her Consoles slapped against the pavement at 5 AM each morning suggested escape — but running from the silence of her apartment, from his side of the closet still half-full, from the way her iPhone buzzed at 11 PM like clockwork with calls she couldn't bring herself to answer.

The calls stopped coming two days ago.

She sat on a bench outside the shuttered bodega, palm sweating against the cool glass of her phone. Seven missed calls. All from the same number. All before Tuesday. Now the screen stayed dark, a mirror for her mascara-streaked eyes in the harsh fluorescent light.

"He's gone, Mags." Sarah's voice from the funeral still echoed. "Cancer. Fast. He didn't want you to know."

She'd thought he was leaving her. That's why she'd stopped picking up. That's why she'd packed his things in boxes she still couldn't bring herself to mail. The running — the literal kind — had started when the guilt began to eat through her sleep.

Her palm hovered over the screen. The voicemail. She'd saved it without listening, just knowing it existed. Something to hold onto when the silence got too loud. But now that the calls had stopped, the silence was absolute.

Her thumb pressed play.

"Maggie." His voice cracked. "It's not what you think. I'm not leaving you. I'm just... leaving. There's no time. I love you. I've always loved you. I didn't want you to watch me —"

Static.

She pressed the phone to her palm, feeling the vibration of his recorded voice against her skin, the ghost of a warmth she'd never feel again. The running stopped.

Behind her, the bodega owner was flipping the sign to OPEN. The city was waking up. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Life, messy and relentless, continued without asking permission.

Maggie stood up, pocketed her iPhone, and began walking home.