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the rain was falling harder than ever, the drizzle turned into a storm that heavily pitter-pattered against the roof of the shed above. there were a few cars passing by, occasionally white, sometimes red. phainon thought it was an odd thing but didn’t dwell too much on the thought. after all, he had bigger issues to worry about—like how he was going to go home without the bus and no one accepting his hailing requests, or like how he was simply staring at the contacts on his phone, eyes glued to what should have never been there in the first place.
he was heavily convinced that everything turned out this way for the better. if he kept telling himself that enough, maybe the hollow inside his chest would take the shape of something manageable, something less than unbearable. he knew endings were necessary, he knows that to himself, have told that to himself, have tried to convince himself many times. but if this was better, why did it ache so unbearably in the quiet?
phainon wanted to believe that he was strong enough to call it closure, that the way you and him parted—without anger, without shattered plates, or slammed doors—was proof of growth and love. it’s foolish, but he was somewhat a firm believer of the universe having bigger things for him, for others, that’s why he let it happen.
and maybe he shouldn’t have because what it really left him with was emptiness, a hollow that goodbyes without blame carve deeper than any fight ever could. sometimes he wished it had ended badly; resentment was better than longing, at least then he could build walls out of spite instead of drowning in what-ifs and maybes. but then again, anger is still love on its own.
time would teach him indifference, that numbness would come like a grace—but all it ever did was sharpen the edges of his yearning. still, he sat there, shoulders hunched against the storm, convincing himself that this silence was necessary, that it was kinder to both of you.
so maybe he really shouldn’t be holding his phone, staring at the same 12-digit number that should have been erased months ago. his finger shouldn’t be hovered over the call button, trembling with the weight of a thousand unsent messages, of sleepless nights where he rehearsed conversations he knew would never happen. what good would it do if he pressed it now—would your voice, unfamiliar yet achingly known, stitch the hollow shut or tear it wider? would it make him less miserable, or only remind him that some distances can’t be closed by a ringing tone? he wondered if you’d even answer, if your phone still carried his name the way he still carried yours, or if he was the only fool clinging to echoes that had long since faded for you.
he wonders what you’re doing right now, if the rain outside your window sounds the same as it does against the shed roof above him. it’s already late, too late for anyone to still be awake without reason, and yet he knows how your mind lingers on things long past bedtime. he wonders if you’re curled up in bed with a book you’ll never finish, or if you’re laughing softly at a message lighting up your phone. he wonders what’s keeping you awake tonight, and what was their name.
would it hurt to know even just for a little bit?
“what am i even doing?” phainon groans and ruffles his hair in frustration, phone clenched tightly in his hands still. the display of your profile and name glares at him mockingly. and as life would have it, one thing have turned to another, when a loud horn from a vehicle blaring through the night has startled him just as the light buzz of alcohol had consumed his head, and suddenly, the screen shifted to a different display. all it took was three seconds to undo months of carefully built restraint.
three seconds of the moment, three seconds of its ringing, three seconds of his panic as it happens, and suddenly, “hello?” your voice rings out from the other line and it feels like he had been punched in the gut. “phainon?” for a moment, his breath hitched. the realization that you still have his number saved feels a little more like salvation in this heavy, cold rain.
“hey,” phainon nearly stuttered, but his tone obviously had faltered when he had uttered your name right after. he’s entirely not sure what to do in the face of something unexpected, despite the fact that he had meticulously prepared and rehearsed inside his head a hundred times already.
you echo, “hey,” pausing for a moment before continuing with your line, "why did you call?”
“i…” he goes silent for a moment. what was he even thinking? calling you like this—despite how it was an accident, but the thought was there and the anxiety too—, was he expecting for you to come back?
but then he hears your voice once more, resonating and echoing louder than his thoughts, reminding him of the love and the smallest parts of his that are still yours—the corners of his heart that are only engraved with your name and yours only.
“how have you been?” perhaps you sensed his hesitation, thus you asked.
albeit that single question made him want to cry. it was not noble nor something profound, not shocking nor anything that amounts to his desperation, but simple. so ordinary it could have belonged to anyone, yet it came from you. the words pressed against the bruises he thought time had dulled, tore at the silence he had carefully and slowly gotten used to.
“i’ve been okay. how about you?” he wanted to tell you the truth: that he hadn’t been okay, that the nights blurred into bottles and unfinished thoughts, that every quiet moment felt like drowning. but instead, he swallowed it down, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel. what right did he have to bleed his grief onto you?
“i’m alright, still doing the same things,” you say with an awkward laugh, “it’s raining hard, isn’t it?” your voice comes out low, unsure, as if you really don’t know why you’re asking such things but you still do anyways. you don’t know if it was curiosity, boredom, or concern that overcame you like a rushing tide, but you ought to ask anyway.
phainon hums, “yeah, it’s been raining all night.”
“the roads must be flooded again.”
he gazes into the stretch of the streets and darkness kept at the edges where the amber light cannot reach before answering, “probably, i saw a car stall earlier.” silence in a moment’s hesitation as he awaits for your answer, his own mouth opening and closing as he scrambles to utter whatever just to keep the conversation going, but all that comes out of him is nothing. once more, it was you that shattered the quiet.
“come to think of it, it was raining when we first met.”
the memory of it flashes inside his head, unfolding like a scene from a movie. somehow, there’s a familiar warmth that dwells in his eyes and a heavy feeling in his chest. he’s all too familiar with the burden of it—after all, he had spent many nights dealing with the heaviness that embraced his bones.
he replies, “it was night too. you were stranded in the rain and didn’t have an umbrella.”
“i know,” you say, “then you came and saved me like a dashing hero. you looked really cool back then. well, you are dashing and cool.”
phainon smiles to himself, tearing his gaze away from his surroundings and down to the ground, fixes it on the crevices that lay beneath his feet. “i don’t think i’m that dashing.” he murmurs, the words carrying a hesitant laugh that dies almost as soon as it’s born. you’ve always said otherwise—always told him he’s handsome, that his eyes are mesmerizing, that even the way his hair fell messily over his forehead made him unfairly captivating—and even now, you still insist.
“no, you are, and i still think you do. you’ve always been charming.”
“charming? i don’t think anyone’s ever called me that.”
“well, i just did,” you laugh, “and i’m not just anyone, you know?”
phainon could only hum in response, unable to say anything, allowing silence to fall in between you and him. he swears, he could see you, he could see himself. he could see the ‘us’ who were giggling under the shed, waiting for the rain to pass by. the ‘us’ that talked about houses and families, and weddings, and vows. and he’s ashamed to say, to speak of such simple, small things, because he knows for others, it’s nothing, but to him, it was everything. he could have lived his life knowing just how your hand felt in his, without ever tasting the sweetness of your lips, and he could have been content with that.
he tries to find the right words to say in the cracks of pavement and in his trembling hands, but all he can stupidly come up with is: “have you eaten?” it feels a little clumsy at most, so small and thoughtless, a few words tinged with desperation and longing to know about the little details of your tonight. whether you’ve sat down for dinner, whether you’re warm, whether the world has been kind to you in his absence.
“just some noodles, nothing special. what about you? eaten yet?”
“had some dinner earlier. ate some sandwiches too but it wasn’t that good.”
“you never did like sandwiches,” you answer, “you’ve always been a salad type of guy.”
perhaps it was his delusional self thinking of you too much that he imagined the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips when you spoke. even inside his head, even in his thoughts, you are still as radiant as the first night he had fallen for you—still the person who knew him in all the smallest ways that mattered, the ones no audience could ever notice, the ones no crowd could ever cheer for. it guts him, how you remember his distaste for something so mundane as sandwiches, as if no time has passed at all, as if the quiet between you hadn’t turned into an ocean he’s been drowning in.
“guess some things never change,” even though everything has.
at this point, it was painfully obvious that this call was going nowhere, that there was nothing to be done in this conversation, that everything there will ever be. would it have been easier if he just didn’t ask?
“is it cold where you are?” your questions never falter and he likes to fall into the illusion that you, too, are curious about him and perhaps, long for him still in the same way he does.
“a little,” he answers, his breath fogging in the night air, “the rain makes it colder.” phainon was still outside, after all. though the rain’s becoming softer and easier now, the air clung damp against his skin, carrying that faint chill that seeps underneath his skin no matter how tightly one folds their arms.
“don’t catch a cold now.” you say gently, and it’s nothing, really, but phainon swallows hard because it feels like everything. for a fleeting second, he closes his eyes and lets himself pretend that you’re not worlds apart, that you’re still his, and that warmth could reach him across the rain.
“i’ll try not to.” he could only say as his grip tightens around the phone, knuckles whitening as if the fragile device could anchor him to you, to the version of his life from months ago where you’re still there to slip your hand into his.
“mm, you still listen to music when it rains?”
“yeah. i came from a jazz bar earlier.”
“jazz? that’s new.” you say, the hint of surprise catching in to your tone as you speak.
phainon cannot help the laugh that slips unsteadily from his throat, light and almost ticklish against the heaviness in his chest. “started listening to it a few weeks ago. it makes the night quieter somehow.”
it was undeniable that there are a lot of things you don’t know about each other now. phainon feels it in the pause, in the silence that lingers a little longer than necessary, in the hesitation that slips between your words. he hates it; he hates how foreign you feel now as if he never once had you remembered beneath the palm of his hands, as if he never once had your warmth against his skin, as if everything was nothing, and this nothing was everything.
“that’s good, then.”
lingering in the here and there, all of this boils down to one thing: still, this is why he loves you.
“it’s getting late now.”
“yeah, you should rest. sorry for keeping you up.” phainon apologetically says, though he doesn’t wish for this call to end.
“no, it’s alright. i’m glad you called.”
“...thanks for answering.”
he would have expected for it to end already, but both of you still remain on the line as if there are still more things to say that the night refuses to swallow. phainon clings to the silence that endlessly stretches, his own being refusing to let go of this moment and allow it to simply rot with regret in the edges of his room; he clings to the fragile hum of your breathing through the receiver, to the illusion that this lingering means something more than hesitation.
phainon knows the fall of his stubbornness and desperation will end in something terrible but he doesn’t waver because the drop is the only place where you and him still exist together.
“it was nice, wasn’t it?” you say, your voice breaking through the quiet like a pebble tossed into still water, rippling outward until it reaches the corners of phainon’s chest. he shuts his eyes and for a moment he’s back there—soaked under that first rain, laughing at nothing, chasing the tomorrows you both believed would come.
“it was nice.” he answers, the words catching in his throat, sharp and brittle with everything he doesn’t say. it truly was.
“goodnight, phainon.”
call ended, 1:43.