The rain tapped against the window pane, a continuous rhythm. Lena clutched her phone, her heart beating. Keith had it—her lifeline, her secrets. He'd listened to the missed messages in her phone.
"Oh, you can't pick up the phone," the unknown man had said. His words hung in the air, a question mark that had Lena guessing. Who was he? Why did he call?
Keith's voice crackled through the line. "Keith’s," he said, his tone a roughly. "Who is this man on your voicemail?"
She stood in her sister's living room, the walls closing in. "I don't know," she said. But her voice was a sign guilt.
"It's over," Keith yelled out. His words were a door slamming shut. Lena burst into tears—the rain outside mirroring her storm within.
And then, when he returned home, the truth unfolded—a cruel twist of fate. The unknown man—the one who'd left that voicemail—it was Alex himself. His voice, his accusation—it had been him all along.
Lena sat on her bed, the phone heavy in her hand. She replayed the message—the words etched in her memory. "Oh, you can't pick up the phone. “How many times had she listened, unaware that the man she loved accused her?
The city whispered their story—the girl who caused too much drama and the man who loved too many women. Lena's heart was a shattered mirror—each shard reflecting regret. She wondered if love was a beautiful disaster—a breathtaking sunrise followed by thunderstorms.
And as the rain washed away old wounds, Lena knew that sometimes, the cruelest voicemails were the ones we left for ourselves.