The Place Where Your Voice Used To Wait For Me

She dialed the number out of habit and realized halfway through that it would ring forever.

The phone stayed silent in her hand except for the soft mechanical hum that meant nothing was wrong with it. Morning light pooled on the kitchen floor and stopped just short of her feet. She stood there barefoot and still as if the room might explain what she already knew. When she set the phone down it felt heavier than it should have.

Her name on the mail stacked by the door read Rebecca Anne Holloway. His name on the lease they had not renewed read Michael Thomas Adler. Seeing the names separate like that made the quiet feel earned and undeserved at the same time.

Scene one opened into the apartment they had emptied slowly. Boxes leaned against the walls like they were waiting for instruction. Rebecca moved through the rooms touching things that no longer needed her. The couch remembered them. The window did not. She opened it and let in the sound of the street. A bus sighed and moved on. She waited for his voice to comment on the noise and felt the absence sharpen.

Scene two lived earlier when the waiting had been sweet. Late nights. One light on. Michael calling from the other room to ask if she wanted tea. Rebecca answering without thinking. They spoke through walls and doors and distance with the assurance that someone was listening. His voice had been a place she rested without noticing the rest.

They had met at a reading where chairs were uncomfortable and the words mattered. Michael had leaned over and whispered a joke that made her laugh too loud. Rebecca had apologized. He had said it was fine and smiled like it was not. The sound of his voice then had felt like invitation.

Scene three arrived with changes that announced themselves politely. Michael worked later. Rebecca filled the evenings with lists. When they spoke it was about logistics and kindness. One night she asked if he was still happy. He said of course and kissed her forehead and went back to his laptop. The question stayed awake after they did.

They learned new silences. The kind that pretended to be peace.

Scene four returned to the last conversation which did not sound like an ending. They sat at the table with mugs between them. Michael said he needed time. Rebecca nodded and said she understood because she did. He said he would call. She said anytime. The words lined up neatly and left nothing behind.

When he left he hugged her longer than usual and said her name. Rebecca Anne Holloway. The fullness of it made her chest tighten. She stood in the doorway and watched him go without asking when he would be back.

Scene five came weeks later with no calls and no explanations. Rebecca answered the phone whenever it rang and let it ring when it did not. Friends checked in. She smiled and said she was giving him space. At night she lay awake listening for a sound that would not come. The place where his voice used to wait felt hollow and exact.

One afternoon she ran into him on a street she rarely took. Michael looked thinner. He smiled carefully. They spoke about work and weather. He said he hoped she was well. She said she was learning. When they parted he touched her arm lightly and did not linger. She walked home with her hands in her pockets.

Scene six settled into a morning like any other. Rebecca made coffee and drank it by the window. The street below moved with practiced indifference. She picked up the phone and deleted his number without ceremony. The screen went blank. The room stayed the same.

Later she opened the last box and found the lease folded inside. Two names printed side by side. Rebecca Anne Holloway and Michael Thomas Adler. She traced the ink once and then folded the paper smaller. She placed it in a drawer and closed it.

That evening the phone rang. A wrong number. She listened to the voice on the other end and hung up gently. The place where his voice used to wait was quiet now and finally hers.

Rebecca stood in the kitchen as the light faded and did not reach for the phone again. The room held. The night arrived. She let it stay.