The Voicemails

CW: Grief, death of a boyfriend (off page but mentioned), bereavement, psychological/emotional distress, brief references to a fatal train accident/human remains, brief funeral/burial talk, use of strong language.

Seventy-four days after Felix’s death, I find one of his freckles on my bathroom mirror.

Not really.

It’s just a fleck of brown paint. And seeing it makes me want to break apart all over again. But I can’t. Because the threshold for grieving has passed.

People say there’s no limit.

Take your time.

Sit with your grief.

Go slow.

Take it easy.

They’re all lying. They all have a point where your sadness starts looking like laziness. Like a burden.

Seventy-four days. Two months and two weeks. My window of mourning is closed. I realized that when my professors didn’t ask how I was doing. When the Stay Strong texts dried up. When Coach put my name back on the training schedule.

I stare at the damn paint fleck until my eyes get blurry. A wave of memories crashes over me.

Felix got paint everywhere. No matter how careful he was about it. No matter how many times he wiped his hands.

Paint stuck to every surface in the apartment. I’d find it on the microwave, on the sink’s faucet, on the tops of the pillows, and on the carpet.

It was worse when he started on a project.

Like the one he was working on before he died.

It was gonna be a surprise for me, apparently. The problem was that he was terrible at keeping surprises. He talked about it constantly. How it was gonna be the cover art for my song RedWood. And how the song was full of browns, yellows, and pinks.

He played the song over and over again. I left for class with it ringing out of our room. And I came back with it greeting me at the door.

Every time I asked to see it, he’d smile and shake his head.

“You’ll get it when it’s done.”

My throat tightens. It’ll never be finished. It makes me sick every time.

It makes me angry every time.

The paint should’ve been gone by now. I scrubbed this apartment from top to bottom. Not because I wanted to erase him.

Maybe I did…a little.

But, honestly, it hurt to see the paint. So I cleaned.

It shouldn’t be visible anymore, and yet, pieces of Felix keep showing up.

On the walls.

On the sleeves of my hoodies.

Little reminders that he was here.

That he laughed.

That he existed.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. It makes colorful dots appear, and I cry harder.

“You know those dots you get when you rub your eyes too hard? Yeah. That’s kind of what I see when I hear music.”

I hate being miserable. I want to be happy. It’s something I crave. And sometimes, I can fake being a normal person—someone who’s not bogged down with grief.

Sometimes, it works, and I’m happy. But then…then a video makes me laugh, and I think those four words.

Felix would love this.

And, for one perfect second, he’s alive again. Then reality punches me in the gut.

I remember the call from his mother. The way her voice shook. The way each word sounded like it was being dragged through broken glass.

“He was…on that train. He’s dead. My baby—oh god, my baby—he’s…gone.”

I loathe remembering. A heartless part of my brain wishes to be rid of him. Because then I’d never have to remember him again.

I hate grieving. I hate the empty space in my bed that keeps me up at night. I hate the dust covering my guitar. I hate not being on the field.

I hate you, Felix Sinclair.

I love you. Please, come back to me.

* * *

Voicemail from ❤️Felix❤️ 3:15 AM

I’m gaping at my lock screen like it’s a three-headed dragon because what I’m seeing shouldn’t be possible. But every time I turn my phone back on after it goes off, that notification is staring right back at me.

Waiting.

I sit up quickly, unlock my phone, and head to my voicemails. And, it’s still there. Sitting at the top of the list. A red dot next to it, indicating that it’s unread.

It’s impossible. I know.

My thumb hovers over it.

It’s not real. It’s not from him.

There’s a logical explanation.

Somebody spoofed his number.

Or it’s some sort of glitch.

My stomach twists.

Felix is dead.

I watched them lower an empty casket into the ground because there wasn’t enough of him left to bury.

My thumb trembles.

I press play, expecting some strange voice to come through.

There’s static.

A rustle.

Breathing.

Then—

“Hey, Lu.”

A pitiful sound escapes me.

“I was wondering if you were still gonna buy me new paints,” the voice says, laughter coloring the words. “The brown is really low. I have to roll—”

Static swallows the next few words.

“—love youuu, my rockstar.”

Tears drip down onto the screen.

My breathing comes fast.

My heart is ripping open.

I’d know that voice anywhere. I spent seventy-four days terrified that I’d forget how he sounded.

I play it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I play it until the clock reads 4:30 AM.

The way he draws out “love youuu” kills me each time. Felix always stretched out words when he wanted something.

I glance at the timestamp.

3:15 AM today.

Not March eleventh. Not the thirtieth—the day before he died.

Today.

It’s impossible. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. Dead people stay dead. They don’t call at three in the morning asking for paint. There’s an explanation for this. I know it. I just…can’t name it yet.

I drag my hands down my face and force myself to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

The voicemail is still there, burning a hole through my chest.

I swipe to delete it, hating the Are you sure? message that pops up. Because I’m not. But I hit ok anyway.

The message disappears.

I just need some sleep. Yeah. Sleep will fix everything.

* * *

The ringing drags me out of a dreamless sleep.

Who the fuck is calling me?

I rub the sleep from my eyes, fumbling for my phone. The call ends before I can see who it was. My room goes quiet. Then the screen lights up again. I squint against the brightness.

Voicemail from ❤️Felix❤️ 5:03 AM

Nausea bubbles in my stomach. Not again.

Why is this happening to me? What did I do?

I won’t listen to it. God knows it won’t do me any good. Just ignore it.

My body moves on its own—pushing up against the pillows, fingers typing in my passcode.

I’m gonna delete it, and then go right back to sleep. That’s what I’m doing as I maneuver to my voicemail inbox. I’ll go to sleep, and then take my phone to the store. Somehow explain that I’m receiving fake voicemails from my dead boyfriend. Get it fixed.

I’m not listening to it.

“Hey, Lu. Um…”

Static.

“Me again.”

He laughs, but it sounds…unsure.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your sleep. I just want to say that…I miss your music. I hope you’re still writing.”

A pause.

“You always get that little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you’re stuck on a song.”

Another laugh.

“I miss that.”

Static crackles through the speakers.

“I miss a lot of things, actually…”

There’s silence for ten seconds.

“I love you, Lucas. I hope you don’t ever forget that.”

A piercing shriek rings out, like the sound of a radio losing signal.

“I don’t even know if this is working,” he whispers so low that I almost miss it. The message ends there.

I stare at my phone for a long time. The screen gets blurry as my eyes go unfocused.

“Please, stop this,” I hear myself say. “This isn’t funny.” Tears drip down my face. “Do you hear me? This isn’t funny!”

I tell myself it has to be a prank. There’s technology out there that can make dead actors talk. It has to be that. It has to be someone using his voice. It hurts even more thinking that someone is tormenting me with his memory.

Over and over again, I listen to the voicemail. Until the sun is bright and yellow in my room. It sounds so much like him. I can feel my heart breaking each time I restart it. But I can’t stop.

I’m about to play it again when a notification pops up.

Twelve on the dot, and it’s another goddamn voicemail.

The notification disappears, and the new voicemail slots itself at the top.

“It’s really starting to hurt now…”

A breathy laugh.

“I’m trying so hard,” he says, voice thick. “To be positive but…”

Felix takes in a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just can’t, Lucas. I’m—”

A sob cuts him off.

“I’m starting to forget things. I don’t know how long I can—”

A burst of static tears through the speakers.

“Please…find me.”

My hands shake as the message ends. He sounded so scared. It’s not real, I tell myself. But, what if…

I pick up my phone—everything feels like it’s stuck in slo-mo. I click the voicemail and call the number back.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try again.”