A familiar name lights up the phone. Six months have passed.
She does not answer straight away. She dries her hands a little longer than necessary. He always knew how to begin a conversation: the right phrase, the tension eased, the important thing hidden inside something light. Now there is only breathing at the other end.
That pause is enough. She can already hear why he called.
He asks about a book he once left by her door. She says he never even finished the second page. The excuse falls apart, and at last he says, ‘I missed your voice.’
She knew before he admitted it. The real turn comes later: when he suggests meeting, the pause belongs to her for the first time. She almost chooses the familiar ‘some other time’, takes a breath and answers, ‘Thursday. Eight.’