Unheard — one shot (Patreon)

Author's note: I thought of writing something sad. The day is pretty gloomy over here and cold. So, I thought it would be appropriate. Let me know what you think below!

word count: 2.2K

It had been months since you last saw him.

Months since the door slammed.

Since voices rose too high, words cut too deep, and silence fell too suddenly.

You told yourself you were done. That you didn’t need to hear another excuse, another half-hearted explanation, another tear-laced whisper of “I’m sorry” that would just lead you both back to the same storm again.

So when your phone buzzed that night, when Harry’s name lit up your screen with that one final voicemail—

You didn’t listen.

You couldn’t.

It felt like defiance. Like control. Like the last shred of power in a love that had bled you dry.

And so it sat, untouched. A quiet digital ghost buried in your inbox.

Until now.

You’re lying in bed, curled beneath blankets that still smell faintly like cedarwood and citrus. His scent. The one he’d leave behind on your pillow when he left early for work, brushing a kiss over your temple.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You hadn’t meant to think about him tonight. You try not to most days. You keep your phone on silent. You avoid your shared playlists. You skip the café on 4th that made his favorite chai.

But the memories—they find you anyway.

Like now.

The first time you met him—

He had been wearing a ridiculous floral shirt that clashed with the gloomy autumn sky. His smile was lopsided, boyish, his dimples deep and disarming.

“Can I sit here?” he’d asked, gesturing to the seat beside you in the crowded library café.

You’d shrugged, eyes still on your laptop.

But he’d stayed. And eventually, he talked. And you talked. And somehow that hour became two, then three. And then coffee dates turned into late-night drives, into inside jokes, into toothbrushes left behind and hearts shared in quiet, sacred pieces.

He was your person.

Until he wasn’t.

The last few months had been… unbearable. Not just the silence after, but the unraveling before it. Words turned sharp, touches grew cold. You both kept hurting, even when all you wanted was to heal.

But God, you loved him.

Still do.

Your eyes flicker toward your phone on the nightstand.

The voicemail is still there. One minute, forty-three seconds.

You’ve never pressed play.

Not once.

What if it was his goodbye?

What if it was his plea?

What if it was both?

You stare at it like it might vanish. Like it might finally give you peace. Or destroy what little remains of you.

And suddenly—your hand moves before you can stop it.

Play.

His voice hits you like a wave. Cracked, low, heartbreak tangled in every word.

"I know you’re not going to pick up. I wouldn’t either, not after tonight. I—I don’t even know what I’m calling for. Maybe I just needed to feel like I was still close to you, even if only through this stupid machine."

Your lips part, breath stalling in your chest.

"I hate fighting with you. I hate what we’ve become. But I never hated you. Never that."

There’s a pause. He sighs.

"I don’t know if this is it. Maybe it is. Maybe we ruined it too much to fix. But I need you to know—I didn’t walk away because I stopped loving you. I walked away because I didn’t know how to hold on without hurting you."

Another pause. Softer, this time.

"If you ever want to try again... I’d come back. I would. Just say the word."

And then—

Nothing.

Just static.

You clutch the phone to your chest as if it might bring him back.

But it’s too late.

He’s not here anymore.

There’s no word you can say. No call you can return.

Just a message you never heard in time.

And now, the only thing you can do—

Is press play again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, it hurts a little more.

Each time, you hear something different.

The first time: regret.

The second: hope.

The third: the way his breath caught before he said, “I didn’t walk away because I stopped loving you.”

Your mind plays tricks on you now, filling in the silence after the beep with things he might have said if he had more time. If he had more courage. If you’d picked up.

You lie there for hours, cradling the phone like it’s something sacred, like the message might fade if you don’t hold it close enough.

Eventually, you get up.

The apartment is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your ribs, settles into the spaces grief carved out of you.

You shuffle to the kitchen. Open a cabinet. Then close it again. The mugs haven’t moved. Neither has the chipped blue one he always used—still tucked in the back corner. Still there, like he might walk in any second and reach for it with his sleepy, calloused hands.

You touch the handle, just once.

Then you pull your hand away like it burns.

Three weeks into the silence, you remember standing in this same kitchen, staring at the clock on the wall, waiting for him to walk in. You hadn’t known it yet, but that would be the last night he ever came home.

You had made his favorite pasta. Lit a candle. Put on that stupid vinyl he loved.

He never showed.

He texted you hours later: “Got held up at the studio. Sorry. You up?”

You didn’t reply.

You left the plate in the fridge, but he never touched it.

You threw it out two days later. Just like everything else.

You grab your coat and slip your arms through the sleeves like you’re trying to escape your own skin. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you can’t stay here tonight. Not with his voice still echoing through your bones.

Outside, the air is crisp, the sky dark but clear. You walk.

Past shuttered storefronts. Past the corner where he first kissed you, when the city buzzed with life and you thought love meant forever.

Your feet carry you instinctively, as if they’ve always known the way.

You don’t realize where you’re going until you’re standing in front of the old bookstore.

It’s closed, of course. But the neon sign in the window still flickers like it always did.

You remember the day he dragged you inside because he swore it had a copy of a rare vinyl hidden in the back. It didn’t. But you bought a poetry book and he picked up that godawful orange sweater—and when you teased him about it, he grinned and said, “You’ll miss this sweater when I’m gone.”

You had laughed then. Rolled your eyes.

But he was right.

You do.

You miss everything

The voicemail plays again in your head. Every syllable now etched into your skin.

“I don’t know if this is it. Maybe it is. Maybe we ruined it too much to fix.”

You hadn’t known what that meant until now.

He’s not dead. He didn’t vanish.

He’s just… somewhere else.

Living a life that no longer intersects with yours.

You haven’t seen him. Haven’t heard anything since the message. No texts. No sightings. You don’t ask mutual friends. You don’t let yourself look.

But sometimes you wonder. Where is he? Does he still check your Instagram, even though it’s private now? Does he still keep that worn photo strip of the two of you from the boardwalk tucked in his wallet?

Does he still listen to your shared playlist?

Does he still remember the sound of your laugh?

You sit down on the park bench by the duck pond. The place you always went to breathe. To sit in silence when words felt too sharp.

It’s quiet here. Cold.

You take out your phone. The screen glows in the dark.

You scroll to the voicemail, thumb hovering.

For a wild moment, you think of replying.

Of calling.

But what would you say?

“I’m sorry.”

“I waited too long.”

“Come back.”

Or worse—“Don’t. I just needed to hear you one more time.”

Because you still don’t know.

You still don’t know if that voicemail was his goodbye or his plea.

And you’re afraid to find out.

You wake up the next morning with puffy eyes and a sore heart.

But you get up.

You shower.

You make coffee.

And for the first time in a long time, you sit by the window and let the light in.

The message still lives on your phone. You haven’t deleted it. You probably never will.

But you don’t press play today.

Instead, you put your phone down and open the book he once bought you. The one you never finished.

And you read.

One page. Then another.

Somehow, you keep going.

Because maybe that’s what healing looks like.

Not moving on. Not forgetting.

But remembering… without falling apart.

t lingers with you, that last line of his.

“If you ever want to try again… I’d come back. I would. Just say the word.”

You’ve kept it in your pocket all day, his voice, tucked close like a letter you can’t stop rereading. It plays on loop in your mind as you fold laundry, as you water the plant he gave you that’s somehow still alive.

You don’t press play again.

You don’t need to.

Because now, you remember every word by heart.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you sit down on the edge of the bed, your hands trembling, your chest cracked open with the weight of too-much-too-late.

You open your phone. Stare at his name in your contacts.

It’s still there.

You haven’t had the courage to delete it.

You never could.

And suddenly, you think—

Maybe he deserves to know.

Maybe you owe yourself the truth, too.

Not a grand gesture. Not an apology.

Just something.

So, you tap his name. Your heart pounds in your ears as the call screen pops up.

You wait until it’s late. Almost midnight. The one time you’re certain he’ll be unreachable. He always works Thursday sessions late—his producer told you once they go well past midnight when inspiration hits.

You press the call button with shaking fingers, more afraid of him answering than anything else.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

You breathe in. This is good. Voicemail is coming. That’s all you want. All you can handle.

Three times.

Four.

You open your mouth to speak.

But then—

Click.

“...Hello?”

You freeze.

You feel your stomach drop, the blood rushing from your face so fast you feel lightheaded.

He answered.

He answered.

“Y/N?” His voice is rough. Tired. Cautious. But unmistakably him.

You open your mouth again, but nothing comes out.

A beat passes. Then another.

“I—I didn’t think you’d pick up,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath that sounds like disbelief. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

Silence. Charged. Fragile.

You press your phone tighter to your ear, close your eyes. “I was going to leave you a voicemail,” you say, barely audible. “I just… I wanted to tell you I heard yours. I listened to it. Last night.”

More silence. But not empty. Never empty with him.

“You kept it?” he finally asks, voice cracking just slightly.

Your breath hitches. “Yeah.”

There’s movement on the other end of the line, like he’s sat down or shifted closer to the sound of your voice.

“I didn’t think you ever would. Listen, I mean,” he adds. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe it was better if you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know if I meant it when I said I’d come back.”

You flinch.

“Oh,” you manage, small and broken.

“No—fuck, wait. That came out wrong,” he says quickly. “I meant I didn’t know if you’d even want me to come back. And if you didn’t… I didn’t know if I could survive hearing that.”

You bite your lip, eyes burning.

“I don’t know what I want,” you admit. “I just knew I wanted to hear your voice again.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then:

“I haven’t changed my number. I guess I was waiting.”

You almost laugh. It’s a sad sound, soft and frayed. “So was I.”

Another pause.

“I still love you,” he says.

You suck in a breath like he’s just reached through the line and touched your skin.

“And I don’t want this to be the last time I hear your voice.”

You close your eyes again.

Your heart thuds. Your hands tremble. But for the first time in months, your lungs feel full.

You don’t know what happens next. You don’t know if you’ll get it right this time. If you’re ready to let him back in.

But you know this—

You're not ready to let go completely.

Not yet.

So you whisper, “Do you want to meet tomorrow?”

And when he says yes, you believe him.