She left a voicemail I wasn't supposed to hear. She was talking to herself about me.
A butt dial at midnight. Three minutes of her saying things she'd never say to his face.
She called at midnight.
I didn't pick up.
The voicemail was three minutes long.
I pressed play expecting logistics.
Instead I heard her talking.
Not to me.
To herself.
She must have butt dialed.
She was in her car. I could hear the engine.
She said why can't I just tell him.
My chest stopped working.
She said he makes me laugh like nobody else.
She said I think about him when I wake up.
She said he has no idea.
I sat on my bed holding the phone like a grenade.
Three minutes of a woman confessing to her steering wheel.
The voicemail ended with a sigh.
Then silence.
Then the click.
I played it again.
I played it four times. Then drove to her apartment at 12:47 a.m. Some words can't live in a voicemail.