Please Call Me

Content warning: emotional abuse, gender-based violence, digital abuse, gaslighting.

Present: The Request

Sunday evening, three weeks into a new town. The flat in Wilderness holds its breath. Wind frets the door; the lagoon's cold breath creeps through the cracked window. Zara scrolls on her new couch until a notification.

Instagram message request: @alex__renee (Alex).

Alex: Hey. Random, I know, but your photos stopped me. You remind me of someone I used to know.

She should ignore it. But used to know lands soft, like a hand she didn't ask for but suddenly needs.

Zara: Who?

Alex: Myself, I think. When I was braver.

Three weeks of new street names and furniture that didn't feel like hers yet.

Zara: What makes you think I'm brave?

Alex: You're still here. New town, new start—that's not an accident.

Her grid shows the move: sunset over the estuary, the rail bridge, a cardboard box on tile. Still here loosens something in her chest.

Outside, the lagoon brings damp salt through the window. She types back.

3 September 2013

There's this guy. Marcus. The Coke machine ate my coins at Parktown library and he thumped it, two cans spat out like it owed him arrears. He said the universe runs on interest.He laughed and it didn't feel like he was laughing at me.

He asked what colour the inside of my head is when I can't sleep. I said grey. He followed that up with "The restless kind?" I said yes and suddenly we were talking about everything.

We talked until the library was closing. Then he asked for my number. My hands shook when I saved his name. It feels like being seen.

Present: Song of Coincidence

The messages settle where silence used to be.

Alex: Random question—do you listen to music when you can't sleep?

Zara: Always. The silence is too noisy.

Alex: Thought so. You read like someone who needs sound to think.

She tells him she's still learning the wind here.

Alex: Out of nowhere—but you seem like someone who'd love "Cosmic Love."

Her thumb stills.

Zara: That used to be my favourite. How did you guess?

Alex: Sometimes you just know.

She hasn't had it on a playlist since school.

Zara: Maybe I bring it back.

Alex: It suits you.

19 September 2013

We text every day. Marcus doesn't ask "how was your day"; he asks "what made you feel most alive today?" I told him if I could only listen to one song forever it would be "Cosmic Love." He said some people need to be seen in the dark.

We're going to his bookshop Saturday. I bit my nails down to nothing. They look like I fought my own hands.

What if someone actually wants to know me?

Present: The First Cost

"You've been weird lately," Lesego says on Sunday afternoon's video call.

They've already done the work gossip and the weather; this feels like the part they've been circling.

"Distant. Wilderness is a schlep. But I'll mission if you're drowning." they add.

Zara shifts the laptop angle so Lesego can't see her checking her phone. She hasn't talked to them properly in ages.

"I'm fine. Just adjusting."

"You ghosted the group chat and you barely call."

"I was busy."

"With someone?"

"I've been talking to someone. Online."

"Be careful. You don't actually know him."

"I know enough."

It comes out sharper than she means. Lesego's face changes.

They hang up. The flat feels colder, like the lagoon got in.

"That was harsh," Xolo says, getting up from the couch. "The move's been hard on them too. We just up and left them in Jo'burg. They're just worried about you. We both are."

"I know, but I'm no Fabergé egg. I'm far braver and stronger than you two give me credit for."

"I don't want to fight, and you don't seem to want me here. I'll see you at work." Xolo leaves.

She checks her phone immediately.

No new messages. Only his last text:

Hope your day's been gentle. You don't owe anyone explanations that cost your peace.

It feels like permission. She texts Xolo a postponement for next weekend—"...catching up on work." She doesn't.

Present: The Physical Tell

Late night, blue light, typing indicator surfacing and sliding.

Alex: Can I ask something personal?

Zara: Sure.

Alex: Areyou still biting your nails when you're anxious?

Her breath catches. She looks at her hands: ragged half-moons, the sting of an anxious hangnail.

Zara: How did you know I do that?

Alex: You mentioned it, didn't you?

She scrolls back through days of messages. Memes, lagoon photos, wind jokes. No nails.

Zara: I don't think I did.

Alex: I remember clearly.

She scrolls farther, heart high in her throat.

It's not here.

Alex: Or maybe I just notice things. I pay attention. Is that weird?

It should be sweet. Attentive. Why does her stomach churn?

Alex: Sorry if that came across as creepy. I just care about people I notice things about.

The apology lands. Her shoulders drop.

Zara: It's fine. I probably mentioned it.

She closes the app. Opens it again thirty seconds later. Scrolls through their history one more time. Still nothing about nails.

She tells herself she's being paranoid.

12 October 2013

Bit my nails to the nub. Marcus told me to stop. I said if it were a choice I'd pick a more glamorous vice. He looked like I'd slapped him.

I said sorry.

Present: The Mask Slips

Another late night. A colleague's email reads like an ultimatum.

Alex: Hey, don't stress, yeah? It's not that deep.

She stops scrolling.

That phrasing. She hasn't heard anyone say that since school. Since she stopped saying it because her friends teased her.

Zara: That's interesting phrasing. I used to say that.

Alex: Maybe I picked it up from you. We're rubbing off on each other.

They've known each other three weeks.

Zara: We haven't known each other long enough for that.

Alex: Time's strange when you actually connect.

She wants to believe it.

They almost make plans, coffee at the market, but a client emergency pops up. He sends proof: a calendar screenshot.

Alex: Can we keep this between us for now? People talk. Opinions contaminate things.

She thinks of Xolo's worried face.

Zara: Okay. For now.

Alex: Thank you. It means a lot.

Later he asks for photos. "Right now, no filter." Then mirror shots. Then smiling. She sends them.

Alex: Could you text me goodnight each night? So I know you're safe.

8 January 2014

Marcus asked for my cloud password, his phone's full, the holiday photos are in mine. I gave it. That's trust, right? He offered his too. I said I didn't need it. My journals are in there but that's fine. He wouldn't read them.

We're good. We're really good.

Present: The Ritual

She starts complying without naming it a ritual. Goodnight messages, even when she isn't tired. "Please call me" pings when she forgets. An USSD habit from prepaid days that never left the country's bones. He turns it into a rule: if she doesn't text by eleven, he sends one. She calls it considerate the first time. The third time, it's a tug on her collar. By the fifth week, the check-in arrives before the thought; her thumb moves because it moved yesterday.

She misses Xolo's rescheduled brunch. She tells herself she's saving money. She sleeps worse.

By Wednesday, she has cancelled a hike she promised Xolo for the old railway line; she blames the wind. Her appetite forgets itself. She checks the phone between emails, between steps to the kettle, between brushing her teeth and rinsing; when the typing dots appear, she holds her breath; when they vanish, her stomach drops like the lift has stopped a floor too soon. She drafts replies to colleagues and backspaces more than she types. Twice, she opens Instagram at 3 am because the room feels like it's closing. The goodnight rule sits under her skin and itches if she ignores it.

Present: The Pattern

On a Sunday, she notices.

Scrolling through their message history, the pattern emerges: the heavy conversations. All of them on Sundays, eight to eleven pm.

She scrolls faster. Sunday. Sunday. Sunday.

Her pulse kicks. Her chest tightens.

Three Sundays ago: the long talk about fathers. Two Sundays ago: the night she cried and laughed in the same twenty minutes. Last Sunday: the "what terrifies you most" game.

Sundays do the heavy lifting. Ten Sundays make a habit.

How does he know Sundays are the soft part of her week?

Present: The Misremembered Memory

Wednesday. Late. The screen a small moon.

I feel like I really know you now, he types. Like I can see the parts you hide.

Maybe, she sends back.

Remember that story you told me? Your parents' big fight, you called your best friend crying?

Something cold slides down her spine.

I never told you that story.

You did. Last week.

I didn't. And I didn't call anyone that night.

What?

I wanted to. I couldn't. I just sat there.

You're remembering it wrong.

I'm not. I remember every second. I didn't call anyone.

Then how would I know? You're not making sense.

How do YOU know?

If I'm wrong, I'm sorry, but you're acting paranoid.

She knows that night. Remembers it like a scar. Plates shattering. Dog under the bed. Lesego's contact open for two hours. Thumb hovering, frozen. Never pressing call.

She didn't call. She knows this the way she knows her own name.

She closes the app, opens the laptop.

Cloud drive. Journals 2011–2015.

Last accessed: ten weeks ago. Two days before Alex's first message.

Her move: twelve weeks ago.

He waited. Gave her three weeks to feel alone.

Her breath catches.

She clicks. September 2013.

"If I could only listen to one song forever it would be 'Cosmic Love.'"

He didn't guess. He read it.

October. Hands shaking.

"Bit my nails to the nub. Marcus told me to stop."

He didn't notice. He stored it.

She scrolls faster. "It's not that deep" peppered through entries. Her voice. Archived. Performed back.

Then the dates:

Sunday, March 18, 2013: "I hate Sundays."

Sunday, October 20, 2013: "Sunday again."

Sunday, February 2, 2014: "Why are Sundays always like this?"

Mapped.

She pulls up his Instagram. @alex__renee. Stock photo. Twenty-one followers. First post: nine weeks ago.

Cloud access log: [email protected]

Accessed yesterday.

Accessed last Thursday.

Accessed Sunday. Sunday, when she mentioned grocery shopping.

He's been reading in real time.

She keeps digging. A folder she doesn’t recognise. Inside, her journals, exported and sorted into tables. Her sentences on one side; on the other, scores and tags she never wrote.

At the top of the window, the filename reads "sunday_analysis.xlsx".

He hadn’t just read her; he’d mined her. Turned her into input.

Her vision blurs. She walks to the sink. Cold water on her wrists.

Breathe.

Sunday, 23 March 2014 – 11:47 pm

They're fighting again. Plates, voices, walls going thin.

I've had L's contact open for two hours. Just press call. Just say "Can I come over?" My thumb won't move. What do I say? He's going through stuff too.

I didn't.

I didn't call L. I didn't call anyone. I wanted to so badly, but my thumb wouldn't press down. I just sat here frozen with the dog under my bed and my phone lighting up my face.

I wrote this instead: pages about how nobody cares, nobody came, nobody saved me.

The truth: I never called for help.

I told Marcus about this night months later. He said he wished I'd called him.

But I didn't call him.

I didn't call L.

I didn't call ANYONE.

Will I ever be brave enough to ask for help when I actually need it?

Present: Realisation

She reads the entry twice.

That night. I called L.

He didn't answer.

He never replied to my voicemail.

But Alex knew. Knew her parents fought. Thought she had called.

His version: "you called your best friend crying."

The truth: Paralysed for two hours. Never made the call.

Only one person knew this story. The person she told. The person who had her password.

Marcus.

Alex is Marcus.

Present: Response

Three messages:

Are you okay?

I'm worried.

Please talk to me.

She blocks the number. Blocks the account.

Thirty seconds later, @alex__renee DMs Xolo: "Is Zara safe? She's been unstable."

Xolo forwards it. "What the fuck is this?"

She screenshots. Types: Long story. I'm okay. He's not.

She changes passwords. All of them. Removes Marcus's cloud access. Two-factor on everything.

Her mail app blinks. Subject: Please Call Me.

Her chest tightens.

A cropped image of her journal. Blue ink. No greeting.

If you block me again, others will get to know you properly.

She screenshots. Breathes.

Another email. Same subject.

A line she wrote at sixteen, underlined in red.

You sent me pictures, be a shame if people saw you like that out of context.

Three "Please call me" pings. The sound makes her flinch.

She mutes notifications.

Another email: HR@… would want to understand who you really are.

A voice note lands. New handle. She doesn't play it.

She forwards everything to EVIDENCE. Saves to laptop. Sends to Xolo.

Need you to keep all this. If anything happens, you have copies.

Password-reset emails arrive. She kills recovery links. Adds a SIM-swap PIN.

When it stops, the room is quiet.

13 November 2025

I remember being sixteen. Writing "nobody understands me" in blue pen that bled through cheap paper. I remember thinking: one person. If I found one person who saw the real me, I'd be okay.

I remember giving Marcus my password. January 2014. Calling it trust.

I remember the night my parents fought. My thumb hovering over Lesego's name for two hours. I remember not calling. I remember writing instead.

I forget that memories can be rewritten. That he would remember me calling when I sat there paralysed. That his version would become the story, the weapon, the trap.

I forget when I stopped being afraid of him.

I forget that geography doesn't erase history.

He kept her. That sixteen-year-old who wrote everything down because no one asked out loud. He read every word. Learned her Sundays. Her phrases. Her hungers. Built a stranger from her loneliness, someone who knew exactly what to say, exactly when to say it.

I thought I was starting over.

I was already standing inside a trap made of my own words.

I remember her.

I was her.

I am not hiding anymore.

Present: The Call

She closes the notebook.

Her phone buzzes. Another message. A "Please call me" ping. The old reflex blooms in her thumb—

—and she lets it pass.

She opens the group chat.

Zara: Hey. I need to tell you something. Can we talk tomorrow?

Lesego: Always. Are you okay?

Xolo: Want me to call?

She watches her thumb hover. The rectangle of light looks like it did on that bed in Joburg, but she is not that girl.

Actually, yes. Please call me.

The phone buzzes. She answers.

"Hey," Xolo says, voice steady. "I'm here."

She breathes. She tells it, not every detail, enough. Xolo asks if she should come over. Lesego's already said they're driving down. She says yes.

When she finally hangs up, Lesego's car is already in the driveway.

They talk until the flat is a flat again.

After goodnights, she deletes his contact. Adds Xolo and Lesego to Emergency. Opens the window wider.

Tomorrow: police station, protection order, CAS number. Tonight: this.

She turns the screen face-down.

Outside, Lesego laughs. The sound sits on the air.

Xolo texts: "Goodnight."

She replies. She leaves the phone on the floor, not under the bed, and closes her eyes.