Voicemail

I call her phone every night just to hear fourteen seconds of her voice.

Sofia and I were together two years. When we ended, she blocked me everywhere. Texts, calls, Instagram, even that stupid Duolingo streak. But she never changed her voicemail greeting, so I could still reach her somewhere.

It goes straight to voicemail now. I think she turned the phone off. So I call, listen to "Hi, you've reached Sofia, leave a message," then hang up before the beep. A little nightly ritual. My therapist would have words.

Tonight, I listened to the greeting again, but this time, I actually listened. Not to her voice. To the background.

There's a sound at second nine. A tiny laugh, deep and low, behind her.

It's mine.

She recorded that greeting the night we moved in together. I was on the sofa. She said, "Say hi," and I said, "Say you're not here, babe." Then she laughed, and I laughed, and she recorded the whole thing on the first take.

I'd forgotten that completely.

She deleted every photo. Every text. Every trace. She blocked me from her life.

But she never deleted her voicemail.

For fourteen seconds, every time anyone calls her and she doesn't pick up, they hear me.

She erased me from everything except the one place that says she's not available.