I left my heart in a voicemail. She saved it. Plays it every night before bed.
A late night voicemail. Words he never meant to record. She's listened to it 400 times.
I called her at 11 p.m.
She didn't pick up.
The voicemail beeped.
I meant to hang up.
Instead I started talking.
I said things I'd never said out loud.
About the way she makes Monday feel like Friday.
About the way she says my name with both syllables.
About the way she holds her pen when she's thinking.
I said I think about you more than I think about anything.
I said I don't know what to do with that yet.
The voicemail cut me off at two minutes.
I hung up.
Stared at the phone.
My hands were sweating.
I texted her: ignore the voicemail. Butt dial. Sorry.
She texted back three hours later.
One word.
Heard.
My heart stopped for two full beats.
She heard every word I'd been hoarding for months. One syllable back changed both our lives.