As I lay in my hospital bed, gasping for my last breaths, the harsh fluorescent lights above seemed to grow dimmer, matching the fading rhythm of my life. My family surrounded me, their faces a blur of worry and grief. In those final moments, the world felt distant, and time seemed to stand still. Then, out of nowhere, my mobile phone, resting on the bedside table, rang, breaking the somber silence of the room. Weak and feeble, I reached for it, answering with trembling hands. With the phone pressed to my ear, I strained to listen, my heart racing. “All I hear is, ‘Listen… I…,'” a voice began, but before it could continue, my breaths ceased. The line went silent, and my hand fell to my side. The phone kept saying, “Hello, hello, hello” incessantly, as if pleading for my return. Someone in the room, realizing my departure, picked up the call, and I could hear them say, “Sorry, he is no more,” their voice heavy with sorrow.
Time marched on, and the phone lost track of my whereabouts. Years passed, and it found itself in the hands of a much older person. Their hair had turned white, their back had bent with age, their eyes had weakened, and they relied on a cane for support. They made their way to a cemetery, searching for something that had haunted their thoughts for decades. Standing beside my grave, they spoke softly, as if addressing the echoes of the past. “Listen… I love you to the point of madness. I love you. Forgive me. I didn’t value your love.” I, imprisoned in the chains of eternal silence, could only listen as their words hung in the air, echoing through the quiet cemetery. Their voice carried regret, longing, and the weight of missed opportunities, while I remained unable to reply for all eternity. Unfinished love, bound by the boundaries of time and mortality, would forever haunt us both.
(The author is a freelancer. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”.)
