"The Voice She Shouldn't Have Dialed"
The phone rang once.
Then again.
And he let it.
Not because he feared who might be calling.
But because he feared who wouldn't be.
Ansh Mehra didn't answer unknown numbers. He hadn't in years. His world was carefully structured: voiceovers in the morning, editing till dusk, and silence after sunset. Silence was safer than memory.
But that ringtone—it had a rhythm. Familiar in a way he couldn't name, like the last line of a song you once loved but forgot how to sing.
The call ended.
He exhaled.
Then, it rang again.
He stared at the screen. Still no name. Just a number. German. Berlin local.
And still… he picked up.
"Hello?"
Three seconds of static.
Then, quietly—almost afraid of being real:
"Ansh?"
Everything in him tightened. Like his bones remembered a voice his mind had buried.
"Elina?"
The name came out harsh, like a cut that hadn't healed right.
"Yeah," she said. Her voice hadn't changed. That made it worse.
There was a pause. Heavy. Long. Loaded with things left unsaid for far too long.
"I… I'm sorry to call you like this."
"You shouldn't have," he replied flatly.
"I know. But I didn't know who else to—"
"You didn't know who else to call?" He laughed once, bitter and soft. "I thought you forgot I existed."
She didn't answer.
"Why now?" he asked, softer this time.
"I'm getting married," she said.
Silence.
He could've cut the call right there. Should've. But he didn't. Because some wounds itch when they're almost healed.
She continued, "Before that… I just… I need to take one last trip. And I don't want to go alone."
Ansh blinked. "You want me to… what?"
"Come with me. Just a few cities. Few days. That's it. I promise."
"That's insane," he said.
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
"I waited. I called. I begged."
"I know," she said again. This time, it broke.
He didn't realize he was gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
"I'm not who I used to be, Elina."
"Neither am I."
He looked at his left hand. It had started again. The tremor. Subtle, but there.
"I can't—"
"It's just a train ride, Ansh. One trip. Then we go back to our separate lives. Please."
There was something in her voice.
Not desperation.
Not love.
Just… the kind of quiet that came when you were holding yourself together with invisible thread.
He hated that he understood it.
"Where?"
"Berlin. Then Prague. Then Meherfeld. Maybe Vienna in between."
Meherfeld. Of course. The town they used to talk about retiring to when they were barely twenty-three.
He hadn't thought of Meherfeld in years. And now, it sat on his tongue like a curse.
"Why Meherfeld?" he asked.
"You'll know when we get there."
Ansh didn't say yes. But he packed that night.
It wasn't much. Just one bag. Two jackets. Painkillers he didn't label. And gloves—always gloves.
In the morning, he looked in the mirror and tried to smile.
His face looked fine. Normal. No one could tell. That was the whole point.
He flexed his fingers. The right hand responded. The left… slower.
He put on the gloves.
Berlin Hauptbahnhof was cold. Not snowy, not stormy—just quietly grey. Like someone had drained the world of contrast.
He saw her before she saw him.
Same coat. Same hair. Older, maybe. But not really.
She was facing away from him, watching trains come and go. Like she hadn't already chosen which direction to take.
"Hey," he said, walking up.
She turned.
"Hey," she replied, a little breathless.
They stood there, two ghosts pretending to be people again.
"You look... the same," she said.
"You don't," he replied. It wasn't an insult. Just truth.
She smiled—only barely. "Thanks for coming."
"I still haven't decided if I have," he said.
The train announced boarding.
She nodded toward it.
"Let's decide inside."
The compartment was quiet. First-class, but not luxurious. Just enough space to sit without touching. Just enough room for distance.
They didn't speak for the first hour.
Outside, Berlin blurred into forests. Inside, silence sat between them like a third passenger.
"Do you hate me?" she asked finally.
He didn't answer right away.
"Every day for two years," he said. "Then it faded. Then I hated myself for letting it fade."
Elina looked down.
"I wanted to write to you," she said.
"Why didn't you?"
"I was scared."
"Of me?"
"Of what I'd become."
Ansh turned to the window. His reflection stared back.
"You could've just said goodbye."
"I didn't know how."
"You vanished."
"I know."
He looked at her.
"You don't get to vanish and then ask for a reunion tour."
"I'm not asking for forever," she whispered. "Just... a few days."
"That's all I have left anyway," he murmured.
She didn't hear it. Or pretended not to.
They reached Prague by evening.
Same city. Different version.
She checked them into a quiet hotel off the main square.
Two rooms.
But their silences stayed in the same hallway.
That night, Ansh sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker like half-dead stars.
He opened his notebook. Not to write—just to stare.
His fingers didn't want to hold the pen tonight.
He didn't force them.
Elina knocked.
He opened the door without a word.
She held two mugs.
"Coffee?" she offered.
He took one.
They sat on the floor, backs to opposite walls.
"I missed this," she said.
"This?" he asked.
"You. Saying nothing. And still being louder than everyone else."
He didn't reply.
His hand trembled again.
He put the mug down before she saw.
"I'm not who I used to be either," she said softly.
He looked up.
"Then why do I feel exactly the same?"
She had no answer.
He waited for her to leave.
She waited for him to ask her to stay.
Neither happened.
Just like before.
[End of Chapter 1]