He still calls her sometimes.
Never on purpose. Yet he finds her name under “Dialed Numbers” when he remembers to wake from one of those forgettable nights of downing six-packs alone with some late-night television blaring in a mindless distance. And he could never figure what he might say that hasn’t already been said.
She never calls him back.
Except once, when he was sober enough to ignore it. And still drunk enough to wait for another call. Like a test. She failed.
He still calls her sometimes.
She learned to put the phone on silent after those first few calls in the middle of the night. Hearing irritated noises issued forth in semi-consciousness from the sleeping body next to hers, she’d felt some inexplicable twinge of guilt. Those first few times, anyway.
She never calls him back.
She tried, once. She’d thought about leaving a message, even waited for the inevitable bleep - until she hung up anyway. Not in panic or even cowardice. Just habit.
He still calls her sometimes.
And it isn’t that he doesn’t remember any of it. He sometimes hears the echo of nocturnal profanity in the back of his mind. And he’s sure he doesn’t mean any of it, except maybe the part about being “fucking in love” and “too fucked up to care.”
She never calls him back.
So he sometimes still hears the telling silence of that cryptic message she’d left for him too long ago.
He still calls her sometimes.
She learned to delete those messages before she’d have a chance to listen. Her thumb would swiftly hit “7” before his voice could change her mind.
She never calls him back.
It’s easier now, with so much else to occupy her. All it takes is a baby that needs burping to give her all the reason in the world not to.
He still calls her sometimes.
He thinks he maybe congratulated her.
She never calls him back.
It was probably none of his damned business.
He still calls her sometimes.
And she’s doing fine, really. Except that she cries a little because life turned out just the way she thought it would.
She never calls him back.
Because everyone cries sometimes, and it doesn’t really mean anything.
He still calls her sometimes.
Because he’s met this girl who is just like her, except her hair isn’t curly enough and her smile not warm enough and her eyes don’t light up as much. But she makes him laugh, sometimes too hard because he’s trying to compensate, but she’s really, really nice. And he thinks maybe he might be happy with her, except that he’s too fucking damaged and he can’t really love anyone anyways. Anyone else.
She never calls him back.
So he asks her out again.
He still calls her sometimes.
And she knows it’s fucking twisted because she looks forward to it. Waits for the phone to flash silently in the suffocating black of the night, watching his name glow relentlessly on the screen. On nights like these, she pushes her blanket to the side, letting it form some makeshift divide between her and that motionless body beside her. And she turns her back, her hand clutching the phone to her chest, maybe even her heart.
She never calls him back.
She’s never changed her number.
He still calls her sometimes.
Because he’s lying in bed now, next to – not with – someone he likes, likes enough. And it’s fucking awkward because he’s there, not cuddling but just there. And he thinks about how it doesn’t make any sense because love is supposed to be this thing that keeps going, and because he’s supposed to heal and maybe that’s why he’s lying here, empty and cold, next to the closest thing he will ever come to love. Next to.
She never calls him back.
So he sleeps on the floor.
He still calls her sometimes.
She’s too busy to delete his messages now, so she just lets them accumulate until they get removed. Some days she walks her son to school, but mostly she just stays in, trying too hard to put something on paper, watching the minutes and hours tick by as she downs cup after cup of coffee just to stay awake, as if her weariness had anything to do with being tired.
She never calls him back.
Because she picks her son up after school, and he’s so excited to see her and she wonders how long it’ll last before he’s waving her away. And because that’s sort of enough too, in its own quiet way. And because, sometime back, she heard something about him getting married, and she remembers not feeling anything at all. And yet she wonders why
He sometimes still calls her.
She’ll never call him back.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Feeling pretty angsty about Jim and Pam, so I thought I'd try my hand at some anti-fluff. Should be a oneshot piece unless I change my mind in some distant future. Please do review :)
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.proudgirl is the author of 6 other stories.
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