The screen lights up.
The number on the phone’s display, unrecognisable.
He lets it keep ringing, thinking about how often he’s regretted taking calls from unknown numbers.
His “Who is this?” countered by, “Who are you also?”.
The mere recollection makes him kiss his teeth.

The phone keeps ringing.
Why can’t people follow the three rings rule?
He’s not in the shower, not in a meeting, and his phone’s ringtone is loud enough to set the mood at a house party.
He just doesn’t want to take the call.
It stops ringing.
Finally.

He tries to go back to bed but fails.
Something forces him to reach for the phone, and his fingers return the call as though of their volition.
“Oh good, you called back.”
Rude. There’s something ¬familiar about the voice.
“Listen, we don’t have much time. You need to come find me. I can’t go back. Not this time.”
The sheer gall. “Who are you?”
“Knowing my name won’t matter, which is just as well, to be honest, seeing as I don’t have a name… or if I do, no one has ever thought to use it.” There are traces of a sad chuckle as she says the last thing, almost as if she’s had a terrible epiphany.

If you can call it that, the conversation starts to take its toll on him, “Listen, if you don’t tell me who you are, I’m hanging up on you. Right now…”.
There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “I can’t give you a name even if I wanted to. But when we’ve met, you called me many things – the one that got away…”
He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He is not one to use such cliches, and the only time he ever has…. No. It can’t be.
He drifts back into the conversation, “a missed call….”

He feels his mouth go dry. He suddenly knows who he is speaking to. And she’s right; she doesn’t have a name. She never needed one – not once. For all their interactions, names were never mentioned. It seems impossible, and yet, it’s the only thing that makes sense. He doesn’t even have to see her to know….
“I’m the girl from your dreams.” She concludes.

The phone rings, jolting him. He is confused, trying to understand what just happened.
The beads of sweat on his brow fall on his pillow in sync with palpitations that won’t let.
The phone continues ringing, a series of sounds from a world far-far away.
He reaches for it as it rings off.
He presses the power button on the side.
The screen lights up.
The number on the phone’s display, unrecognisable.
A missed call.