The Last Voicemail From My Brother Still Plays in My Head

The last time my brother called me, I let it go to voicemail.

I was busy — or at least, I thought I was. Something about groceries or laundry or just not feeling like talking at the moment. It wasn’t a big deal. He called all the time. I figured I’d call him back later.

But there wasn’t a later.

That night, he was gone.

It was a car accident. One of those things you read about in local news. A driver ran a red light. He didn’t suffer, they said. Like that was supposed to comfort us.

I remember staring at my phone in the dark, that little red notification dot on the voicemail icon blinking like a wound. I couldn’t bring myself to press play.

Not at first.

When I finally listened, days later, his voice was cheerful.
“Hey, just calling to check in. Miss you. No rush calling back — I know you’re busy. Just wanted to say I love you. That’s all.”

I must have played it twenty times that day. It felt like he was still there, just barely out of reach. Like if I listened hard enough, maybe I could respond. Maybe I could undo it.

But the truth is, you never get a second chance to pick up the phone once the call is gone.

We weren’t perfect siblings.

He teased me too much. I ignored his texts sometimes. We had arguments — stupid ones, about politics, or how he never returned my stuff. But he was always there. In his messy, loud, loyal way, he loved deeply. And I knew it. Even if I didn’t say it enough.

Now, I keep that voicemail saved in three different places. Just in case.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t show up like a storm. It leaks in, quietly. Through songs you both loved. Through the back of your closet where his old sweatshirt still lives. Through conversations where you almost mention him — then stop yourself.

Sometimes I forget for a second. I’ll see something funny and think, I should send this to him.
Then I remember.

The silence that follows is always louder than anything he ever said.

People say “he’s in a better place,” or “at least you have memories.” I know they mean well. But what I want is not a better place. I want this place — just with him in it.

I want the dumb jokes. The late-night calls. Even the arguments. Anything but this hollow space he left behind.

People say “he’s in a better place,” or “at least you have memories.” I know they mean well. But what I want is not a better place. I want this place — just with him in it.

I want the dumb jokes. The late-night calls. Even the arguments. Anything but this hollow space he left behind.

If you’ve lost someone, you get it. The world doesn’t stop. Bills still come. People still ask how you are with a polite smile. But you carry something invisible — a sharp little ache that lives behind your ribs.

Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it roars.

But it’s always there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever delete that voicemail.

Maybe one day my phone will crash. Maybe the file will corrupt. Maybe it’ll vanish, like he did — suddenly, and without warning.

But for now, it’s there. A small lifeline. A reminder.

That love doesn’t end just because a heartbeat does.

So if someone you love calls — pick up.

Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re busy. Even if you think, I’ll call them back later.

Because later isn’t promised.

And sometimes, five seconds is all the forever you get.

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