The Hours Between Hello and Goodbye

I prepared for the call like it meant more than it should have.

Earbuds on. Couch.

Back straight, as if posture could keep my feelings from spilling out.

The room was quiet, but my chest wasn’t. I stared at my phone, willing it to ring while pretending I didn’t care if it did.

Then it rang.

I answered too quickly.

“Hello?”

Even without a mirror, I could feel it — the heat in my face, the unmistakable color of anticipation. I wondered why I felt so giddy over something that was supposed to be simple.

We started with the concert. The obvious place. The harmless place. The kind of topic that lets you pretend you’re just two people making small talk.

I told him I had leg cramps that morning.

“Oh,” he said, amused. “Because of your all-night tiptoeing.”

“Remember the guy in front of me with the hat?” I said. “I almost wanted to tip his hat over.”

We both laughed. He agreed he probably would have done the same.

He brought up the photo op I’d missed and how he felt bad for me.

“I didn’t even know about it,” I said — or maybe I did, and chose not to remember.

I also mentioned that I should have left early for work.

He answered, "That's what I was hoping for, too when you said that".

"But I didn’t want to ask for more time off. I already felt like I’d taken too much.", I explained.

For a while, that’s all we were — two voices circling the same night. Tickets. Timing. Crowds. Safe details that didn’t ask too many questions.

He told me it had been hard for him to buy his ticket. His daughter had been sick. Money had gone elsewhere. But a friend stepped in.

“I’ll always be grateful for him,” he said.

I told him I bought mine last minute. I wasn’t even in the country before that. I thought everything would be sold out.

“But it wasn’t,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “It wasn’t.”

The conversation slowed after that. Like we both realized there was no rush anymore.

We talked about bad decisions. About the strange way life keeps moving forward even when you’re not sure you chose the right direction.

“Do you have regrets?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Only lessons.”

I said I believed him. I wasn’t sure if I actually did.

He told me about fixing his friend’s car that morning. About never getting the COVID vaccine. Small, ordinary things. The kind of details you only share when you stop trying to sound impressive.

Then I said it — the thing I hadn’t planned to say.

“I feel stuck.”

There was a pause on the line. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

“Stuck how?” he asked.

“Like I missed the exit,” I said. “And now I’m just… driving.”

“You didn’t miss it,” he said. “You’re just afraid to take it.”

I laughed, but it came out softer than I meant it to.

“You sound like someone who’s about to change my life.”

“I barely know you,” he said.

“That doesn’t seem to matter,” I replied.

Another pause.

The kind that feels heavier than words.

Eventually, he said he should take a nap before visiting his daughter. I agreed — I said I probably needed one too.

Then I checked the time.

“Do you know we’ve been talking for seven hours?” I asked.

“Was that long already?” he said, surprised. “Wow. I haven’t experienced that in a long time.”

We both laughed. The kind of laugh that tries to make something lighter than it actually is.

We said goodbye, not knowing when we’d speak again — and I went to bed thinking about my silence, never once considering his.