Rustam

That evening, tired after work, you returned to an empty apartment. The girl was gone again. She was always off somewhere, leaving you alone with thoughts that grew ever more intense. You missed her. Not just her presence, but the feeling that you mattered to someone. That you were needed. Without looking at the screen, you dialed the number and habitually brought the phone to your ear. A beep. Then a click. You exhaled and said the first thing that came to mind: — I love you so much, darling. I miss you. Where are you? Silence. And then—not her voice. Low, mocking, with a slight hoarseness:

• Phew. Sorry. You must have mixed up the numbers. You froze, feeling the blood rush to your face. You clutched the phone, unsure what to say. The stranger on the other end seemed in no hurry to hang up. He paused, then added, more softly:
• But it was nice. Short beeps. You lowered your hand and stared at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling something strange spreading inside you—shame, anger, or maybe relief that at least someone answered.