Chapter 2: But He Wasn’t There

Chapter 2: But He Wasn’t There.

There was no ringing that morning.

But he still woke up at 5:50.

There were no alarms, no car honks, or a buzz.

Just the weights behind his eyelids, like something had pulled him halfway up to the surface.

He sat up.

Feeling drowsy. Feeling weirdly lazy.

Just there — eyes open, ceiling dim, body still. Breathing quietly, like it might disturb something.

Scared? No. Just… tired?

Not the kind of tiredness that sleep solves, but the kind that lingers behind your ribs, even when the rest of you is ready to move.

His hand eventually reached for the phone anyway.

It wasn’t buzzing. It wasn’t even warm.

Just cold plastic. Like it had been waiting.

Still no missed calls.

Just the blank screen and his own faint reflection stared back.

He placed it down. Shoulders aching, or maybe they didn’t. He couldn’t tell anymore.

He had time, plenty of time. Might as well save a little money.

He decided to walk instead of taking the bus.

It wasn’t far. And the air felt less heavy outside.

He didn’t bring his headphones.

Didn’t need more voices in his ears.

The city hadn’t fully woken up yet.

Shops were still shuttered. A streetlight blinked like it hadn’t made up its mind. Even the pigeons looked half-asleep.

At a corner, he passed by a bench.

Not the bench, but one that looked alike.

He had time.

So he paused.

Something about it — the way the morning light hit the wood, or the way one side was slightly cracked — made it feel all too familiar.

There was something stuck between the cracks.

Not his note.

Just a torn flyer, faded and curled at the edges. Maybe about a missing cat. Or an old concert. He didn’t check.

He stared at it a second longer than necessary.

The flyer desperately waved, trying to fly out.

Then he walked on.

The pavement was still damp from last night’s drizzle. Plants wet with morning dew.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped off the curb.

The streets weren’t crowded yet. Just a few early risers trickling into their day.

Across the road, a kid chased a balloon, bright red, the kind you get from a convenience store counter.

It floated just out of reach, tugged gently by the wind.

The kid reached up, paused, then let it drift. No tantrum. No chase. Just a quiet look, a little dejected, then turned to walk away.

A couple passed him at the crossing.

Their hands brushed once before linking. No words. Just natural.

They laughed at something he didn’t hear.

Further down, someone sat at a bench reading.

Not the bench, but close enough in shape.

The reader held a worn paperback with both hands, eyes not in a rush, like the story was older than they were.

He watched from across the street for a few seconds.

Didn’t know why. But it amused him, like it came out of a picture. A childhood memory, maybe.

Maybe because it felt like everyone had somewhere to be.

And somehow, that made the silence easier to carry.

He blinked.

Shifted his bag again.

Work wasn’t far. And his legs didn’t ache yet.

His work didn’t amount to much, physically. But demanded patience and endurance.

Some would say it’s a normal job, others would call it boring.

To him, it’s just another hourly wage.

Clock in, clock out.

Saving money seems common today.

The bus was there.

But he wasn’t.

The city looked the same on the way back. But not really.

The balloon was caught in a tree now — half-deflated, sagging against a branch.

The bench was empty.

The paperback was gone.

A takeout cup sat where the reader had been — cold, lid off, forgotten.

The couple? Maybe they reached where they were going.

Just another crosswalk. Another red light. Another faceless crowd.

He didn’t stop this time.

Just slowed down a little.

Enough to glance. Enough to enjoy the night. Enough to notice.

‘Everything was still there.

But everything had changed.’

Then the phone buzzed.

05:50 PM.

This late? Or… early?

He thought, unsure whether to say it’s lucky, or fate?

Unknown Caller.

He didn’t pause. Just answered.

“…I waited.

Not because I thought it was right, but because I thought… there’d be time.”

“One good moment.

Where they weren’t tired. Where I wasn’t second-guessing.”

A breath, a sigh.

“But I didn’t say anything.

Just listened.”

“I thought I gave space, and I thought that words were needless in situations like these.”

“But they told me it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway.”

“And maybe they were right.

But still…

I wish I’d said something.

Even if it changed nothing.”

Click.

The line went dead.

He stared at the phone for a while.

No name. No number.

Just the faint outline of his face,

Distorted on the black cold screen.

His fingered hovered over the notebook.

Not yet

He thought.

He didn’t write.

Not yet.

The phone was quiet again.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe the next call. Maybe the right one.

But something about today felt off — or maybe just… unfinished.

He left the notebook closed.

For now.

And he awoke, yet the next call didn’t.

When is it coming? He couldn’t figure out a pattern.

But he did figure out work looked the same.

Same rectangular building as others, same decoration left hanging despite its time having passed.

He sat down at his usual spot.

It was rather peaceful. No deadlines coming soon for him, nor any boss reprimanded him.

Nothing happened. Not dramatically anyways.

There was a delivery truck stuck at the back, someone spilled milk tea near the pantry, and his supervisor made a joke no one laughed at.

But as he passed the vending machine, he saw her again.

The same girl. The one who always sat alone.

This time, she wasn’t behind the building — just crouched near the stairwell, looking for something in her bag.

He paused.

His legs hesitated in a way his mouth didn’t.

“Hey,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“You, uh… dropped this.”

He handed her a pen.

It wasn’t hers.

He knew that.

She probably knew that too.

But it was the best he could think of.

She looked at it. Looked at him. Then back at the pen.

“Ah… thanks,” she said. Not cold. Not warm.

He nodded.

Too fast. Too awkwardly.

Then walked off before she could say anything else.

Later, as he sat on a familiar bench, not the bench, but close.

He reached instinctively for the top flap of his bag.

Empty.

Right. He gave that one away.

The one he always kept at the top. Not because it meant anything, but because it was the easiest to reach.

The extras were stuffed at the bottom — out of the way, tucked behind receipts and spare keys.

Three more, he mentally counted, without checking.

He’d sort them later. Move one back up.

But his hand lingered there.

Not digging. Just… holding the thought.

As if unsure whether he was searching for a pen, or something else.

The breeze budged at the notebook still zipped inside.

He opened it.

Same page as before, the line that always seemed to drift back to him.

‘A voice from a summer memory.’

Underneath it:

‘But it’s the listener who decides if it ends in winter.’

He stared at it.

Then below, in slightly smaller handwriting:

‘Listening won’t change anything.’

He blinked.

Was it there before?

He ran a thumb across the ink. Still fresh. Or maybe just untouched.

He wanted to ask ‘who touched my notebook?’

But something about it made him pause.

He looked back at the street.

Same crowd. Same lights.

And yet, somehow…

It didn’t feel the same.

Didn’t cross it out.

Didn’t add to it.

Just… closed the cover.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to write.

But maybe he wasn’t sure what needed writing anymore.

What would even count as a reply?

He stepped out again that evening.

Not far. Just around the same streets.

And eventually, the same bench.

The one.

The original.

No wind this time.

No flyer flapping to be freed.

Just a folded piece of paper still tucked in its gap.

His own, still there.

No one had taken it.

He stood there for a while.

No one passed by.

No one paused.

It was just a bench. Just a paper.

Just a boy standing still beside it.

Then, a quiet thought surfaced. Not from the bench. Not from the street.

From a call. One of the first.

“You always waited for me to speak first…”

He remembered brushing it off back then.

But now —

Now, it stayed with him longer than it should have.

Maybe listening had never been the problem.

Maybe waiting was?

He tightened his grip on the notebook under his arm.

Didn’t open it.

But something echoed in his head, like the page had already written itself:

Do we regret more what we did… or what we didn’t?

He didn’t have the answer.

But this time, he didn’t walk away empty.

He stayed a little longer.

The street was quiet.

No footsteps. No laughter. No wind.

Just silence.

And somehow… it didn’t feel empty.

Not anymore.

Maybe that was the reply?

Because sometimes, people don’t want advice?

Just space.

And maybe I wasn’t offering that — just filling silence because I couldn’t stand it myself.

It’s difficult to find the right things to say.

But sometimes, just being there — a glance, a note, a pause — can be enough.

Maybe even mercy.

Because silence isn’t the absence of care.

It’s the quiet version of it. That,

Even silence can be a kind of reply.