𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 | ²⁰⁰⁴

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒

In the glow of my phone's small screen,
I trembled as I typed in his phone number.
Each attempt to reach him felt like risking a piece of my soul.

The familiar, rhythmic sound of the dial cut through the oppressive silence of the room.
I pressed the phone to my ear and closed my eyes, my heartbeat almost synchronized with the sounds of the call.

I listened, hoping and praying that he would answer. But after a few seconds, I was abruptly redirected to voicemail.

"Dad, it's Missy. I'm really worried.
Please call me."

I tried not to cry. Not now. But my voice gave me away every time. I took a deep breath and continued.

"I know you're angry. But please, Dad,
talk to me."

Another day went by, still no answer. It became a ritual to call him, hoping he would pick up.

"Dad, I understand you need time, but I'm here. I'm waiting. And I miss you."

I waited a day.
Two days. Three days.

Every time I called, it was the same.

Every time I talked to the voicemail, I hoped it would be different this time.

In my next message, my voice broke.

"Dad, why don't you answer? Was I that bad? Please, I'm begging you, give me a chance to make it right!"

I sobbed quietly, trying to stifle a whimper.

Days turned into weeks, and I kept trying to reach him. But it was always the same: a few rings and then his voicemail.

But I didn't stop.

It was Christmas, a time for family and love and forgiveness. A time for us to be together.

But this year, his place at the table was empty.

"Dad, it's Christmas. I have your present here.
I hope you call me back. I love you."

Sometimes I just stayed on the line, the phone pressed tightly to my ear, as if I could hear his voice through the silence.

As if I could somehow feel him.

Sometimes, in the late hours of the night, when the loneliness was at its peak, I would call and say nothing, just let him hear my breathing, my sobbing.

A silent plea for connection.