I Heard You Calling

The hallway feels colder than it should, the kind of cold that settles in the walls rather than the air. I walk toward the room at the end, the one with the door cracked open just enough for a thin line of light to spill across the floor. I don’t know why I’m drawn to it — only that I am, pulled by something quiet and insistent beneath my ribs.

I push the door open.

Noah is inside.

He’s sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white. His head hangs forward, chin nearly touching his chest. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven spikes where he’s dragged his fingers through it. He looks exhausted. Hollow. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Noah?” I say, stepping inside. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t look up.

I move closer, expecting him to lift his head, to acknowledge me, to say something — anything — but he stays still, breathing in slow, uneven pulls. His chest rises, falls, rises again, like each breath is a negotiation.

“Noah,” I try again, softer. “Talk to me.”

Nothing.

He drags a hand down his face, pressing his palm into his eyes like he’s trying to hold himself together. His voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper.

“Please,” he says. “Please just… wake up.”

My stomach tightens.

Wake up?

I take another step, the air feeling heavier, thicker, like the room is holding something I can’t see. Noah leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs, head bowed over the bed.

“Noah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “What’s going on?”

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He paces to the window, then back to the bed, then stops, gripping the metal railing so tightly his fingers tremble.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice cracking. “I can’t keep pretending this is temporary. I can’t keep telling myself you’re going to walk through the door. I can’t—”

He breaks off, swallowing hard.

I blink, trying to make sense of his words. Pretending? Temporary? What is he talking about?

“Noah,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m right here.”

He doesn’t react.

He moves back to the chair, sinking into it like his legs can’t hold him. He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his fingers brush the sheet on the bed.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers. “I should’ve picked you up. I should’ve answered the phone. I should’ve—God, I should’ve done everything differently.”

A cold ripple moves through me.

Phone.

Pickup.

Something flickers at the edge of my mind — headlights, rain, a sudden jolt — but it slips away before I can grab it.

“What happened?” I ask, voice shaking. “Noah, what happened?”

He doesn’t hear me.

He leans forward, elbows on the bed, head bowed. I can’t see the face of the person lying there — the blanket is pulled too high, the angle is wrong — but the stillness of the form beneath it makes something inside me twist.

“Noah,” I whisper. “Who is that?”

He doesn’t answer.

He presses his forehead to the mattress, hands clutching the sheets like he’s trying to anchor himself to the world. His shoulders shake with sobs so violent they look like they’re tearing him apart.

“Please,” he begs. “Please come back. Please. I can’t do this without you. I can’t—”

He chokes, gasps, tries again.

“I love you,” he says, voice cracking open. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I should’ve said it more. I should’ve said it every day. I should’ve—God, I should’ve told you that night. I should’ve told you before you left. I should’ve—”

His voice breaks entirely.

I move toward him, instinctively, desperately, reaching out to touch him, to hold him, to tell him I’m here, I’m right here, I’m not gone, I’m—

My hand passes through empty space.

Not air.

Not resistance.

Nothing.

A strange coldness slides through me, like stepping into a shadow that has weight. I pull back, staring at my hand, at him, at the space between us.

“Noah,” I whisper. “Why can’t you feel me?”

He lifts his head, tears streaming down his face.

“I can’t move on,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But every time I think I’m getting better, I hear your voice. I see your face. I feel you everywhere. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or if you’re still here or if I’m just—”

He breaks off, sobbing.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he whispers. “I don’t know how.”

I sink to my knees beside him, even though the floor feels distant, unreal. I reach for him again, knowing what will happen, knowing it will hurt, knowing I’ll feel nothing but cold.

He shivers.

He lifts his head.

He looks around the room, eyes wide, breath catching.

“Are you here?” he whispers.

I freeze.

He can feel me.

Not see me. Not hear me. But feel me.

A tremor runs through him, like a thread pulling taut.

“I don’t know if I’m imagining this,” he says, voice shaking. “But if you’re here… if you’re really here… please. Please let go. Please stop holding on. I can’t move on if you don’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I can’t—”

He presses a hand to his chest, like it hurts.

“I need you to rest,” he whispers. “Please.”

Rest.

The word settles over me like a blanket.

I look at him.

At the bed.

At the still shape beneath the blanket.

At the space between us.

Something inside me loosens.

I rise slowly, the air shifting around me. I move to stand behind him. I reach out one last time, knowing what will happen, knowing it won’t be enough, knowing it’s all I have left.

My hand meets nothing.

He shivers again.

He closes his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Something inside me breaks open.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Something softer.

Something final.

The room brightens.

The air warms.

The edges of the world begin to blur.

Noah bows his head over the bed, shoulders shaking, but his breathing steadies, just a little, like something inside him has loosened.

I feel myself lifting.

Not up.

Not away.

Just… free.

And only then do I understand why he never once looked at me — I was the one lying in the bed.