The audio bar was already scrubbed so many times now that I didn't have count any more.
Yet, my thumb hesitated, hovering over the play button. Once again.
Play.
"Lena—"
Click.
I kept rewinding. Before the static could even settle properly.
"Lena—"
My lips mimicked the word, my own name; a millisecond before his voice could catch up.
Every time.
I had already memorized the breath he took between the syllables. The way his voice broke ever so slightly — like he knew he wouldn't finish.
"If anything ever happens to me, Lena, I need you to—"
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
I clutched the phone tighter like maybe the pressure would help squeeze the rest of the sentence out.
I scrolled back three seconds and played it again.
Two.
One.
Again.
"Lena—"
It's sick.
I know this isn't anything normal. A normal person would stop.
Long before the state I was in. They wouldn't go on for this long. Redoing the same act again and again, manically hoping for a different result each time.
But I don't want normal. I left feeling behind a long time ago — let alone anything normal.
My desperation to reach the version of the message where he said more — it was suffocating. Lodged in my throat.
A version where he doesn't just. . . stop.
Where the sentence finishes and maybe, just maybe, he'd tell me what he needed me to know… to do.
My chest tightened in loops, over and over, the same way every time — like the words were a thread I could maybe tug further if I just listened better.
Eyes stinging. Fingers shaking. But I couldn't stop. Ever.
"Lena—"
What was he going to say?
I swear I know all the static by heart now. The precise pitch of silence that follows my name.
Somewhere in between playbacks, I must've started hearing endings that weren't even there.
Sometimes: "Lena, I need you to forgive yourself."
Other times: "I need you to stop looking."
Once — and I don't even know if I was awake — I heard, "I need you to come with me."
But it was never real.
The message always ended at the same place — a breath caught in his throat, like the words were still forming when the world ripped him away.
Footsteps echoed outside my room. A shadow moved past the door.
I jolted.
My hand flew to the screen, clutching it too tightly to my chest like someone might rip it away again.
They've done it before.
But this time — this time —
I pressed the side buttons, lowering the volume to almost nothing.
Just enough to hear him.
Just enough to not lose the only trace of him that still speaks.
And every time I played it — every time it ended —
I still found this tiny, stupid shimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
That Zane would finish the sentence.
That it wouldn't cut off.
That maybe I hadn't quite lost him yet.
He'd once left me a voice note just to say:
"You left your charger again. That's three times this week. I'm filing for emotional negligence."
I'd played that one on loop too — but not like this.
Back then, I had laughed. God, I laughed so hard my cheeks actually hurt.
I called him just to be scolded some more.
And I swear I would've forgotten my charger a fourth time just to hear him rant again.
Now, I don't even remember what the sound of my laugh feels like in my throat.
Back then, his voice ended in punchlines.
Now, it just ended in static.
6% battery.
The red symbol blinked in the corner like it was warning me.
I didn't move. Didn't plug it in. Didn't blink.
What if the phone updates and the file gets lost?
What if it corrupts?
What if this is the last time I ever hear him?
And worse —
What if I've already failed to do the one thing he needed me to?
Because if I have. . .
Then all I've been doing — listening on repeat, gasping at ghosts —
It means nothing.
It means I lost him twice.
I tapped play again, knowing exactly what was coming.
"Lena—"
Static.
But this time—
There's something.
A sound. A breath that doesn't belong there.
Not the usual inhale. Not the same pause.
A click. A shift. A vowel.
"Lena—"
My breath snags.
I rewind. Again.
"Lena—"
It's nothing.
No — it's something.
Or maybe…
Maybe I'm just breaking in new ways. Hearing syllables where there's only static.
I tried one last time.
"Lena—"
Just air.
Just silence.
My heart dropped. I didn't know what I expected.
But just the hope — that hope that this time he might've said it —
It stung every time.
A knock.
Just one. Not rushed.
My body jolted. My finger slammed the screen off.
I shoved the phone under the blanket like it's contraband.
A soft creak.
The nurse stepped in with a tray. She paused.
I didn't look at her.
I kept my eyes trained on the wall like I didn't just bury my entire heart under hospital-issue linen.
She said something I could not quite quite catch.
A question, maybe.
I didn't move.
The tray clinked softly against the table as she sat it down.
I heard the sound of her shoes squeaking slightly on the linoleum. A beep on her monitor. The dull click of the IV.
Then, the sound of her footsteps as she left.
The door clicked shut.
The room swallowed by the same strangulatory silence like it never left.
I waited five full heartbeats.
Then reaching under the blanket, I could feel how warm the phone was from how tightly I held it.
5% battery.
I pressed play.
Again.