Nobody’s picking up the phone. Not on the first ring, or the next, or the next. But he doesn’t think anything of it. No problem. Nothing to worry about. She can’t always be stuck to her phone. She can’t always be free, or at home.
Half an hour later, he hasn’t given up. No response on the third ring. Or the seventh. Or the tenth.
Not a big deal.
Not a big deal?
Now this isn’t normal. She is not stuck to her phone, not literally, anyway, but she isn’t one to miss several calls, either.
He cannot wait five minutes before he’s calling again.
First nothing, then:
Nobody’s picking up the phone.
He doesn’t like it. It isn’t normal.
“Why won’t she pick up?”
But the words cannot leave his mouth, part his lips, untie the knot in his throat.
Why won’t she pick up?
He cannot take his mind off her, and thank God his flatmate isn’t home. He has never been one to sit still, and this isn’t helping. He cannot stop, pacing back and forth, back and forth. He cannot stop.
Not even a minute passes since his last call and:
Nobody’s picking up the phone.
Why won’t she?
Why can’t she?
No. He cannot act like this. Nothing bad has happened. No. Nothing bad. Nothing very bad. No accidents. No slip-ups. No bad falls. No break-ups. No hospitals. No blood loss. No drunk drivers. No bad trips. No serial killers. No strokes. No fainting. No broken bones. No panic attacks. No loss of faculties. No head trauma. No death. No tragedies. Not him.
This isn’t happening to him.
This cannot happen to him.
It isn't. But he doesn't believe it.
Nobody’s picking up the phone.
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