Drunk Dial

I woke up with a hangover and a four-minute outgoing call to my ex. I remember none of it.

It was Beth's birthday. Tequila, a dance floor, a girl in the toilets telling me I deserved better. I'd been doing so well. Four months no contact. Then, at some point after midnight, my thumb found his name.

His name was Sam. Two years. He ended it in the car park of a Nando's, which I think about more than I should.

The call log said 3:12 AM. Four minutes, eleven seconds. I sat on the edge of my bed, head pounding, and felt my stomach drop through the floor. My brain showed me nothing. Just static.

I texted him. Hands shaking. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I was drunk. Please ignore whatever I said."

He replied in a minute. He'd been awake.

"You didn't say anything embarrassing. Mostly you just talked."

"About what?"

"Everything. Your day. Your new flatmate. A spider you rescued."

I put my hand over my face. "Why didn't you hang up?"

Three dots. They appeared. Disappeared. Appeared.

"Because at one point you asked if I was happy."

My heart stopped.

"What did you say?"

A long pause. Then:

"I said no. You'd already fallen asleep."

Four minutes. He answered the one question I never would've asked sober.

And I wasn't awake to hear it.