The phone didn’t actually ring — that I’m sure of.

I carelessly picked up my phone and scanned the notifications. Like all other ‘normal human beings’ in North America, I check my cell every fifteen minutes for that sweet, sweet dopamine rush that comes with the notification of a new text or Snapchat message. I was pretty surprised when I saw that I had a missed call from twenty minutes ago. After all, my phone had been sitting in front of me on the table the whole time, and it usually emits an obnoxiously loud notification ping anytime anything happens. The thought that I missed my ringtone of Natalie Imbruglia’s ‘Torn’ playing (leave me alone, I chose it half-ironically) was surprising.

I checked the notification, assuming it was most likely spam, and was surprised to see that the call came from my local area code and that it even had a real-life name attached to it! Usually when I get a scam call telling me that INTERPOL has me on a watchlist and that they’ll lock me up forever unless I pay $213 via a very shady e-transfer, it’s from a private caller.

This time, there was a name:

Diane Vale.

Huh. It was still most likely a spam call, but I had been recently playing some modest gigs and opening for up-and-coming artists with my band, and I’d made sure to hand out my music ‘business card’ (don’t judge me) like candy at this point. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to call back with this small, exciting but irrational, ‘what if?’ thought in the back of my mind.

And so I did.

After a few rings, I heard someone answer the phone.

“Hello?” asked the voice on the other end, sounding almost concerned… curious. Is that an old lady?

“Hiiiiiii,” I said, weakly. “I’m calling because I think I have a missed call from this number? From twenty-ish minutes ago?”

“Oh is that right? Wow…” she started, her voice weathered and hoarse. Yep, definitely an old lady. “I’m so sorry, I must’ve… misdialed.”

D’aww. I forgive you, I thought to myself. Cellphones are a lot, even for me sometimes. As much as I wanted to take this opportunity to ask this woman what her experience with TikTok was, to see if the question would melt her brain, I figured it was good to end the call here.

“Ah! No worries at all! I hope you have a great day.”

“Why thank you dear,” she said, and before I could press that bright red icon with the retro phone handle to sever all ties with this woman for the rest of my life, she quickly squeaked in right after, “I was trying to reach my husband, yes, that’s what it was, he must have a similar number to you.”

“O-ohh… right, yeah, I… imagined you were probably just off by a digit or two, happens all the time,” I said, still ready to hang up immediately.

“Yes, that’s what it was. I was trying to reach my husband. But I called you instead. Which means I wasn’t able to reach my husband.”

That is right you wonderful sweet old lady! I think therefore I am. You called me, therefore you didn’t call your husband. Logic!

“I will try him again now. Thank you for being so sweet and tender about this,” she continued.

“Again, no worries at all!” I said, hanging up right after to avoid her throwing more mind-blowing revelations my way, like if I was on the phone with her, that means I wasn’t on the phone with someone else right now. Woah!

Despite my snark, at the time I thought the whole exchange was actually a bit sweet.

That was the prevailing thought, anyways, when I saw her name show up on my caller ID a week later, to the sweet sweet tunes of Natalie Imbruglia (screw you, the song’s a banger). I decided to answer.

“Hello?” I said.

Diane took a while to respond this time. She almost seemed surprised when she did. “Wait, you’re, you’re not Martin —”

“Nope! I think this must be a wrong number.”

The revelation approached Diane at a glacial pace. Eventually, it clicked for her, and she answered with certainty. “Ah! You must be the same woman I called last time! My, your voice sounds so clear.”

“Yep, it’s me again.”

“Well, my goodness, you must be fuming that I accidentally reached out to you again.”

“Not at all ma’am, you’re all good! Best of luck reaching your husband.”

“Oh, well it’s not my husband this time actually, it’s… my brother I'm trying to call.”

“Gotcha! Well, best of luck, I gotta run.”

I hung up the call just as she was mid-sentence through her response. I felt rude doing it, but at the same time, you have to nip things like this in the bud immediately before they drag out. If someone on a cold call or on the street asks you for 20 seconds of your time, be stern, say no and move on. It's the foot-in-the-door technique - and I had to quash it before she felt empowered to share a series of boring stories with me.

It wasn’t until nighttime that same day that I realized it was pretty weird that she contacted me on another misdialed call, this time after trying to reach her brother. Did her husband, her brother, and I all have very similar phone numbers or something?

I pushed the thought aside and moved on. And after two weeks of no misdials, I’d assumed that she’d moved on too.

It turns out that the third time was the charm actually, and this time, Diane’s re-appearance was only frustrating and nothing else. I heard the tail end of my ringtone playing (“You're a little late, I'm already torn”) at what must’ve been 2AM in the morning. I got up just as my phone stopped ringing and checked who the call had come from. Mother-fucking Diane again. Except this time it wasn’t just this one missed call, it was twenty. She’d been trying me for over an hour and I’d just slept through all of it apparently.

I blocked her number and went back to bed. In the morning, I’d noticed that she’d also sent some voicemails. Out of morbid, annoyed curiosity, I decided to give them a listen. I expected to hear a mundane series of messages about her day: an incident at the bank, a complaint that oranges at the supermarket cost 20 cents more than usual, or her frustration that her husband and brother still weren't answering her calls.

Instead, as I listened, every voicemail was the same.

Breathing. Just… her breathing.

One voicemail after another.

Continuous. Running for minutes each time before cutting out to the next message.

Occasionally, it felt as if her breathing would rupture, like she was just about to start crying, but she never did.

What in the ever-loving-fuck? I wasn’t sure if I should’ve been creeped out or if I should’ve felt really bad.

Regardless, I was able to rationalize all of this again. She clearly was just terrible with technology, and the line “leave your message after the beep” meant nothing to her…

… never mind the fact that answering machines had been a thing for a really long time before the advent of voicemail so she really must’ve been living under a rock to have missed all of that. I decided to run with my half-baked explanation for the purposes of buttoning all of this up in my head as quickly as possible.

Thanks to me blocking her number, the next couple of months were business as usual. All was normal in my world. Yes, I would still get a strange sinking feeling in my stomach every time I thought about Diane’s series of late-night calls, but overall the hustle and bustle of everyday life allowed me to put the incident behind me.

Then, on a not-so-special day at a not-so-special time, my phone started ringing. I instinctively went to pick it up as I was actually awaiting a call from one of my friends at that moment.

I almost had an aneurysm when I saw the name “Diane Vale” on the caller ID. My curiosity on how she’d overridden me blocking her number was quickly quashed when I realized that her number looked way, way different this time - it definitely wasn’t from my local area code.

She changed numbers to reach me?

I answered the phone.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you but stop fucking calling me -”

“I’m completely alone,” she interrupted.

Her interjection stumped me momentarily.

“I’m alone,” she continued.

“I heard you.”

“My husband, my brother, my family and friends, they’ve all passed. I have no one. I’m completely isolated.”

“Look, I’m sorry to hear that, really. But that’s no excuse -”

“I just need someone to talk to. Please. Just one meaningful conversation, and then you won’t need to hear from me anymore.”

Goddamnit.

“Okay,” I replied.

As weird as this whole ordeal was - seriously, calling a stranger because you’re lonely under the pretense that it was just a wrong number? - if getting her to talk about the heartache that comes with growing old alone and losing everyone you love was enough to put her at ease, then I could probably burn ten minutes for it. Secretly, I was more frustrated at the potential kids, grandkids, or extended family that this woman may have had who'd left her all alone with no emotional or social support.

“Sometimes it feels like I’ve always been alone,” she started. “And yet, I have memories of a time when life was full. There was company. Laughter. Liveliness. I can distinctly remember moments where it felt like I had almost done too much socializing. Where the presence of others was almost overbearing, if you could believe it.”

You don’t say?

“Ahhh, in hindsight, what a strange, foolish thought for me to have had,” she mused, her voice trailing off.

I decided to multitask. I had a concert later in the evening, and I figured I could put her on speakerphone and start getting ready. I went to the bathroom, placed my phone on the countertop next to the sink, and started doing my makeup in front of the mirror.

“I’m sure that reminiscing on the past probably brings back some mixed feelings. I’m sorry to hear that you feel alone nowadays. No old friends or extended family around for you to talk to?” I asked her.

“Nope. Everyone I’ve been close to has passed.”

Damn, that really does suck. I tried to approach the conversation from a new angle… while applying eyeliner.

“Might be a strange question, but is there any way for you to try to make some new friends, you think? Or do you have any kids or grandkids that you could try to reach out to maybe?”

“I’ve tried, with my kids. No luck. They never answer.”

“That’s a shame,” I replied.

“But on the topic of new friends - yes! Abso-lutely! I would certainly love to make some new friends!”

“That’s good!” I said. But as I spoke, something felt off. I felt a chill going up my spine. Like… something inside me, some inner barrier, had just been broached. It’s a hard feeling to describe.

“I hope you can find some way to feel empowered,” I continued, shaking off the weird feeling. “To make some new friends, and to get everything you still can out of life. You should never give up on making your life a fulfilling one, y’know? Even when the circumstances aren’t great.”

Man, I was really pulling out all of the platitudes today.

“Never. Never ever. I’ve always been persistent. I’ve never been one to give up hope on having and maintaining a wonderful life. Not a chance. Not in a million years,” she responded with conviction.

I tried to focus on her words and the conversation, but I kept getting distracted. I noticed the strangest thing in the mirror: my free hand was caressing my hair slowly, in a really strange way. Why am I doing that?

I returned my arm to its normal resting position and went back to dabbing on some concealer under my eyes.

“But every time I feel hopeful, I sink into sadness again. It truly is the worst thing to lose your family.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I responded. I meant it.

“It was a brutal accident. We were all in the car. It was my brother driving. He’d had this brief moment of negligence - he was distracted in conversation and had turned his gaze away from the road. And it was at that same time that another driver in another car had a moment of recklessness. It was a perfect accident. Almost like the opposite of serendipity. Two momentary lapses leading to a terrible cosmic mistake.”

I was caressing my cheek. Wait, why was I caressing my cheek? Yes, my skin is amazing, but I don’t usually feel compelled to touch it like that. I brought my free hand back to its resting position yet again.

“That’s fucked up. I’m truly sorry about that. A-and just so I’m following, that accident is how you lost your brother?”

“Everyone. My brother was driving. His wife was beside him in the passenger seat, and in the back of the car, it was myself, my husband, and my sister.”

“That’s… I mean, Jesus, that’s fucking brutal, excuse my language. Like, I’m genuinely so sorry. I can’t even imagine how it’d feel to survive something like that, and have to go on while losing the closest people to you, you know?”

No answer from her for a little bit. Just her breathing. Must’ve been emotional for her to recall all of that. I could sense that we were probably going a bit too deep, and at this point, I was ready to wind things down. I wasn’t even sure if this conversation was gonna do any good for her anyways, and so I started thinking about ways I could wrap up this civic duty I’d undertaken.

“It’s a void,” she said.

“Yeah, I totally get that. Like, we probably don’t want to get into it too much, but like, I’ve lost people close to me too and it definitely feels like it’s a hole in your —”

“Where you end up when it all ends is a void. It’s… not at all what people said it would be.”

What? Also, my involuntary movements were really starting to wig me out now. It almost felt like I was suffering from a concussion or something. One minute I was standing up straight, swiping on some lipstick, the next I was leaning over the sink with my face nearly pressed against the mirror, staring deep into my own eyes.

It was time to end the call.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, and I feel terrible about everything you’ve had to go through. I really hope you can find some peace and solace. I unfortunately have to go though, if that’s okay?”

“You know,” she continued, my words breezing past her. “When the crash happened, even though I felt my skull crack, and my spine snap, and… blood fill my mouth, choking me while the rest of me remained a mangled mess, it still felt like I was alive for much longer than I should’ve been. It hurt for a really long time.”

Aaaaand fuck that, I’m out. I felt a movement come from within me. I was pushing my hair back. But I wasn’t doing it.

“But then I thought, when I’d finally crossed over, that I’d be connected with everyone again. We would all be together. But it wasn’t true. It’s just a void. It’s darkness. A sea of it. And it’s lonely and horrifying, and yet the hopelessness is paired with a strange vigor. A real want to return back to life.”

I went to hang up the phone. Why are my hands violently clasped together?

“Easy now, I can feel you. Stay on a little while longer. I’m almost there,” she said.

Oh fuck.

“I’m ready to move on from this. I’m ready to start a new life. Make new friends again. Walk down the street and hear the noise of cars and casual conversations. Company.”

Why do I feel like I’m about to pass out?

Why do I feel like there’s something blossoming from me?

“I am so thrilled you called back and kept answering because I swear to you this has all happened for a reason and I’m almost there and I am almost completely inside of you and you are so beautiful and young and I can already imagine with real vividness the friends I’m going to meet and the new memories I’m going to make and just the liveliness of it all, and everything, even through the pain, it all means something, I am utterly convinced about that fact —”

Her speech started to become more rapid. More intense. I could hear it in my head. I was trying to unclasp my hands and hang up the call but I couldn’t overpower it.

“StayonjustalittlelongerdearI’malmostthereandIfeelmyselftakingoveryouthiswonderfulfeeling —”

I spoke through clenched teeth as I felt myself blacking out.

“GET… THE… FUCK AWAY FROM MY BODY…” I growled.

In an instant, something deep in my gut told me that I was only a few seconds away from losing myself completely. So, with a strange burst of instinct…

I smashed my head against the bathroom mirror, breaking it.

My hands were still clenched together forcefully. It didn’t feel like her spirit inside me had weakened in the slightest. So I braced myself for more.

“What an unkind and selfish thing to do to my body —” she shouted, but I cut her off by slamming my head against the wall. I did it again and again, but I could still hear her fucking voice croaking over the phone. I pushed through, this time making sure I didn’t hold back.

With a wind up, I smashed my head as hard as I could against the bathroom counter. It hurt like a motherfucker. As soon as I recoiled from the impact, I was afraid that I’d done some irreversible damage to my skull or my brain, but it didn’t matter. I had a sense of vigor of my own: I’d rather be dead than have anyone else in my body.

I felt her impact on me weaken ever so slightly, as her voice came through the call:

“You’re a vessel!” she said. “Why can’t you be grateful for that?!”

I could feel myself on the brink of losing consciousness. I wasn’t sure if it was from the head trauma I’d incurred, or if my spirit was about to slip away, but I pushed as hard as I could one last time. I stood up and brought my head down like a hammer onto the counter where the phone lay, knocking it (and myself) down to the ground.

Amidst the excruciating pain and confusion, I felt the sensation of freedom for a few seconds. I leveraged the brief lucidity that came with the insane amount of adrenaline in me and crawled over to the phone. I tapped through the screens and notifications in an almost deranged manner, just as I heard Diane about to say something else, I hung up the call.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

It’s fucking done.

I screamed in place on the bathroom floor for what must’ve been a minute. I screamed even louder when I heard my Natalie Imbruglia ringtone play to signify another incoming call. Caller ID: Diane Vale. I hung up the call immediately, but it was interrupted by another call. Then another. And another. Diane was calling simultaneously from different numbers, over and over again, each call interrupting the previous one before I even had the chance to hang up.

I ran to my hallway closet, found my toolbox, opened it, secured a hammer, and ran back into the bathroom. Without a second’s hesitation, I smashed my Samsung Galaxy S23 to pieces. Even after I’d destroyed it, I continued banging the hammer into my bathroom floor, getting all of the bullshit and headache out of my system.

And then I was done.

I stood up slowly. The mirror was broken so I could only imagine how bruised and battered my reflection looked. With the adrenaline subsiding, the insane amount of pain I felt over my body became ever more apparent. Like Diane had said, it hurt for a really long time. But I was still here. And it was probably time for me to go to the hospital. No concert tonight - probably for the best. I could explain to the cops later why I was screaming while trashing my own bathroom.

It took me a while to feel comfortable getting a new phone. I still remember the puking sensation I felt months ago when I saw her name pop up again on caller ID (this time, off my new ringtone: Electric Light Orchestra’s “Evil Woman”). I blocked it, which is what I did with every other number permutation she used to call me as the months continued. The skin-crawling sensation every time she tried to reach me was always the same. But, thankfully, as time passed, her calls started becoming fewer and farther between. Maybe she was starting to make peace with the void.

Or, alternatively, she was using that spare time to finally learn how to text from the great beyond. I got my first ‘texts’ from her a few weeks back:

“You were so unbelievably selfish.

To string me along, give me false hope, and then back out at the last moment.

I have a silent prayer that I’m holding deep in my heart, that when you do pass, you’ll be in the same void I am.

I’ll have an eternity to inflict on you what I dream about in every waking moment.

Diane”

Sigh. Not even an ‘xox’ or a ‘ttyl’. She needs to brush up on her texting etiquette.

At the time, I laughed and thought it was stupid. Lady, if we all end up in a void, and you’ve already been seemingly alone in said void for what’s felt like an eternity, then it’s probably safe to say that it’s a big fucking void where you won’t ever find me.

That’s the prevailing thought I like to keep, but every now and then I do sink into a bit of despair.

Specifically, in the mornings when I wake up after a nightmare. All of my nightmares nowadays seem to take on the same tone. It’s a regular-ass dream, and then out of nowhere, I turn a corner and off in the distance, the dream extends into a black void. And standing on the edge of the void, where the darkness meets my normal dream surroundings, is Diane. She’s looking at me with an intense stare and a subtle smile, and she’s waving. And for that brief moment, it all feels unbelievably real and vivid.

The thing I hate the most about these nightmares is how my body caves sometimes. Every now and then, involuntarily, I’ll catch myself waving back.

I wonder if we’re allowed to bring things with us into the afterlife. If so, I’d like to ask my loved ones to bury me with a hammer.