The Silence Was Better

I used to think the worst part about living alone was the silence.

I was wrong. It started with a voicemail. Just breathing. Slow.

Steady. At the end of each message, I heard my name being whispered.

A few nights later, a text came in. I am outside.

The closet door was cracked open. I heard that same breathing. I didn't grab

anything. I just ran. The police found nothing. But the phone

still lights up.