After Daniel passed, time stopped making sense. Days blurred into nights, and sleep became my only refuge. I told myself I was resting, but really, I was hiding — from memories, from people, from the sound of my own thoughts.
My phone would ring sometimes. Friends, coworkers, relatives — voices I couldn’t face. I’d watch it light up, then fade to black. One afternoon, I saw my aunt’s name flash across the screen. I remember sighing, turning away, and letting it ring. I just wanted a little more silence.
Later, I found out she’d been calling to tell me something simple, something small — that she’d made my favorite soup, and that she missed me. That was all. And yet, that tiny moment became the one I couldn’t forget.
Now, when my phone rings, I answer — even if I have nothing to say. Because healing, I’ve learned, isn’t always about moving forward. Sometimes, it’s about opening the door again, even when it hurts.
