The Last Voicemail

There is a few seconds of silence at the start of the voicemail.

'Hey.'

A beat.

'I'm guessing you've heard the news, huh? And I'm hoping that you're in the shelter right now, which is why you can't pick up my call. There's probably no signal down there anyway. Which makes sense, of course. Obviously.

'Um, my dad did some calculations. With all the traffic and people panicking, we're not going to be able to make it to the shelter in time. So, um, my mum's making drinks, and we're going to put all our favourite clothes on which mismatch horribly, and sit outside watching the sun.

'Dad says it's estimated 5 minutes until the planes arrive. And I-'

A choked sob breaks her off, then a shaky breath sounds through the raspy speaker of my phone.

'And I'm scared, y'know? I'm so, so, scared. If you'd told me on my birthday that I'd die in a week I would've laughed, yet here we are. God, I wish it didn't have to-'

The signal must have dropped out for a second, because the message frazzled and became intelligible.

'My mum's calling me. I guess it's time to enjoy the sun while it lasts, eh?

'Thank you, so much for being my friend. I've loved every second I've spent with you. And, um. I love you. I probably should have said that a long time ago, but it's too late now, hm? Have a good life. Over and out.'

That was the last time I heard her voice.

I now know that she died in the initial explosion, and wouldn't have suffered much, if at all. There is nothing left, except for a short voicemail left to me, which I know off by heart, the pauses, the tears, the rises and falls of her last breaths.

She was not the only one that died that day, but she is the only one that matters to me.