Sweet Romance13 min read
The Voice Message That Played on His Phone
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When they pushed me into the shadowed corner behind the practice field, I did the stupid, brave thing: I sent a last, ridiculous voice message to my online boyfriend.
I held the phone with shaking fingers. I shouted into the mic like a fool, voice low and oddly fierce. "My heart—my whole heart—if we can't meet this life, next life I'll find you for real!"
I hit send.
A beat later, a loud ping broke the air.
Someone's phone. Big, fat, public.
Then the voice came out of the speaker, loud as if the stadium had swallowed my secret and spat it out: "My heart—my whole heart—if we can't meet this life, next life I'll find you for real!"
People froze. I froze.
The boy lounging on the parallel bars, drinking soda as if he owned the place, sat up. He looked down at the phone, looked at me, and clicked play again. "My heart—my whole heart—if we can't meet this life—"
He dropped the soda, walked over, and said nothing for a long time. He knelt, put a hand under my chin, and lifted my face.
"Are you... sweet and shy?" he asked, like he was reading a menu and found something odd.
I stammered, trapped between terror and that odd, bright flutter when his eyes found mine. He pulled off my glasses, studied my bare face, then shoved the glasses back on like a punishment.
"You're getting in trouble," he said, and then stepped back. His two friends—Brooks and Isaac—grinned, hungry again.
I swallowed. I had been cornered because that morning I scored higher than Freja Grant on the final. Freja had lost her scholarship chance and bought pain. I didn't expect sympathy. I expected fists.
"I don't want any trouble," I managed.
The boy—Zane Farley—turned and said in a flat voice, "Don't move her."
He stood up. "Come with me," he told me, not unkind, not asking.
Brooks and Isaac followed. Freja scowled at us like I'd betrayed her.
"You're my girl," Freja shouted to Zane when he passed, like ownership was a badge, "How dare you let this four-eyes ruin my life?"
Zane's face went still. "She's not your pawn," he said. "Get out of the way."
I went because his voice was the safest thing in the world. In the back of the parking lot his car door opened like a wing. He shoved me into the passenger seat and buckled my belt himself.
Close up, his eyes were sharp, his jaw a clean line. Up close he smelled like sweat and something sweet. I wanted to apologize for every thing I had ever done. I didn't know him. I had only known his voice, my secret voice, that I had paid for through an app.
"Is that your phone?" I asked, ashamed and curious.
He looked at his own device. "Is it mine? Whose would it be?" He dropped the question like a pebble in a pond.
We drove in silence. He stopped in front of my building and tossed two words at me. "Get out."
"Thanks." I said. I stepped out, and my world felt a little smaller.
I ran upstairs and opened my laptop. I punched in the site. The account I had bought—my "virtual boyfriend"—had been paid month by month. He had been my safe place—someone who remembered the stupid things I told him. I had told him about the cheating ex-lover, about wanting to go abroad to face them, about loneliness. In the app he was warm, funny, sweet. In my dorm room I hit "refund" and told customer support, "I have a boyfriend. Sorry."
A reply popped up instantly. "Honey, why refund? He will be sad."
"I have a boyfriend," I typed. "I can't keep this."
The support sent hearts. I left the page feeling smaller. Then a message came: "Are you sure?"
It was from Zane. He had that nickname as my contact. I hesitated and sent nothing back.
The next morning, in the corridor, Freja cornered me again. She kicked at me with a perfectly manicured shoe. "Give me back my scholarship spot. Or I'll make sure you never leave town."
I shrugged. "It was by test score, Freja. Fair and square."
"A test score? You are insane," she sneered. "You're asking for a beating."
I felt Zane before I saw him. He appeared like a shadow at the end of the hall with Brooks and Isaac. He came straight to me, and only to me.
"Why did you call me?" he asked. His brows were in a permanent frown when he was curious.
"I didn't," I said honestly.
He narrowed his eyes. "Did you not answer my phone last night?"
"No." I swallowed. "I was asleep."
He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me to the court, then stopped before the watching crowd. "You," he said to the girls, "are stupid."
Freja pitched a performance of hurt, collapsing to the floor and sobbing like a soap star. "He didn't help me! He left me to be bullied!"
Brooks and Isaac rushed to comfort her like trained dogs. But Zane turned on them. "You two, call your men. If someone's going to take responsibility, do it right." His voice was sharp as glass.
The girls hesitated. Zane's threat was small and terrible: "If you have a boyfriend, ask him to stand. If you don't, call your father."
They started to call numbers, and then nothing came. Panic bred panic. They slapped their own faces to stop the judgment, pleading with me aloud. "Forgive us! We were wrong!"
Zane's expression didn't change while they did it. Then, to me, he said, "Sit on the windowsill. Don't move."
He came over, gently grabbed my shoulder, and sat me where I could watch them. He asked each girl a question like a judge. They stuttered and finally admitted their guilt. He released them like nothing had happened, and the school murmured.
After that day, he made a habit of appearing. He demanded I meet him at midday for food. He would sip his soda, then glance up at me like a ruler pleased and annoyed all at once.
"Why do you always glare at me?" I once asked.
He shrugged, a small movement. "You change."
"From what to what?" I said.
"From loud to small. Online you're bright. Here you hide."
He was cruel and careful. He stole glances like contraband.
And then—like a ridiculous coin flipping—he asked me to dinner.
"Come," he said flatly. "Pick. I'll pay."
We went cheap and small. He ate what I liked. He ate the burger I had started, swallowed the half-bite like we were sharing the same mouth. I hated that in secret it felt as close as kissing.
"Stop hiding food," he told me when I said I would rather box it than waste it.
"Why?" I said.
"Because you eat badly when alone," he said, in that tone that meant he meant it.
He did things that did not fit his street-tough persona. He sent me water. He barked when other boys joked about us. He scolded his friends if they tried to embarrass me. He rubbed ointment on my face after Freja left a bruise.
"Why do you help me?" I asked once, in the doctor’s office, letting him smear cream on my skin like a parent.
He looked at me with an odd softness and said, "Because you get hurt."
After that, I tried to be honest. I told him about Leonardo Daugherty—my ex—and Kendra Garcia, the girl I'd once called my friend. I told him how they had run off to a foreign country, how they had taken the thing I wanted most—truth.
Zane listened, face dark. "You should tell him off," he said.
"I tried," I said. "He never answered."
He watched me. "I can handle him."
Weeks passed and I felt my heart change. It was slow like a sunrise. I found myself doing things for his comfort and guilting myself for enjoying them. He mattered in a way that made me nervous.
Then everything stopped. He missed school.
I looked for him everywhere. I asked Brooks, Isaac. "Where is he?" I whispered.
They evaded. "He's not around," Isaac said. "Don't bother him."
I panicked. He was mine now, even if we had not signed papers. He was the person who had seen my worst and protected me in the worst way he could. My chest hurt.
I begged Brooks to take me to his house. They laughed and gave me reasons. Finally I stood in front of his apartment door and knocked until it opened.
Zane was home, looking like someone who had been punched by his own life. He yelled at me. He told me to leave. He slammed the door. My heart dropped. I stepped back.
Then he barreled out barefoot, hair wild, and stood in the hall. He grabbed my hand and ran upstairs with me, then froze and sat me on the couch while he buckled under something heavy.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"I wanted to see you," I said, "I wanted to know if you were okay."
He laughed, a short, bitter thing. "You think I'm fine? You think anyone's fine?"
He trembled.
My mouth went dry. We argued and I told him the truth. I confessed that the call that had been misrouted—the transfer of my voicemail—had been because I had diverted my phone to Leonardo's number by accident. I told him how I had tried to fix it and how I had been ashamed to tell him the truth.
His fists tightened. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.
"Because I was afraid you'd hate me," I said, plain and small.
He did something he rarely let himself do: he let his guard fall. Anger, hurt, and relief showed in his face, like lightning stepping across a field.
"Why would I hate you?" he asked, almost a whisper.
"Because I'm messy," I said. "Because you deserve better than messy."
He stared, then, abruptly, held me. "Don't say those things," he said, "Not to me."
We kissed. It was rough and clumsy and real. We didn't notice the neighbor who dropped their groceries in the stairwell and heard everything.
The neighbor—Zane's mother, Minerva Hill—came in with a basket of apples and a laugh. "Well, this is a scene," she chided, seeing us. She smiled at me, not the way strangers smile, but like a woman who had watched a boy grow out of control and find a small order.
She told me a truth that changed everything. Zane had been working, in the only way his mother could think of, to help him heal. Minerva had signed him up on the same site where I bought my "virtual boyfriend." She told me she had managed his voice account because Zane would not talk to therapists. He had hidden behind a persona to practice being kind. He had used that voice to be friends with me. He had been my "virtual boyfriend" and then he had become real.
"I thought if someone heard the old him, he might start to be the new him," Minerva said, eyes wet. "You were his first real friend, Legacy. You spoke to him like no one else did."
It was a small miracle and a small shame. I felt like a character in my own life, surprised.
She then said something that made me laugh and then choke on air at the same time. "By the way," she added, "you two are about the right age. People think about these things."
"Ma'am," Zane protested, face flaming.
We left to eat dinner. It was awkward. It was gentle. It was a beginning.
But the past moves like a boomerang. Leonardo and Kendra were back in town. They had been on a trip that stretched farther than summer and then decided to return. The rumor mill blew and filled with hot, bitter wind. Leonardo wanted to take back something: his promise to be a better man. Kendra wanted to show she had a life to live.
Soon enough, I found them walking through campus like they owned a stage. People recognized Leonardo as the boy who had once dated me, and Kendra as the pretty girl who had run with him.
This time I was not the same person who would hide. I had Zane. I had evidence—old messages I had saved because sometimes you keep things like talismans.
Two days after they came back, the scholarship board held a public meeting in the lecture hall. Many students came. Leonardo had been invited to speak about his research. Kendra sat in the front row with a smile like a blade.
I had a plan. It was small and risky. I wanted them to feel the taste of the truth in public.
I stood when the room was full and walked to the microphone. "Excuse me," I said. Everyone looked at me like a stray had wandered into a kitchen.
The chair of the board blinked. "Do you—?"
"Yes," I said. "I need to say something."
I had copied my files onto a little USB. The hall's projector took one breath and then showed a chat thread. Leonardo's messages scrolled: promises, lies, the long night messages to Kendra while he ignored me. There were screenshots of plane tickets, images of declarations sent in secret. The chat showed Kendra laughing, "He's mine," and Leonardo answering, "We go tomorrow."
The room turned. Whispers swelled into a wave.
Leonardo's face drained. He stood. "That's private," he said, voice thin.
"It was private," I answered. "Until you turned it into your public life."
Kendra's eyes flashed. "What are you doing? Deleting that."
"You can't delete it," I said. "I have proof of what you did. You left me to make plans alone, you two made this private breakup into a public betrayal."
People leaned forward. "Are you serious?" someone whispered.
Leonardo's jaw worked. "Those messages—" he started.
"You told people you were single and dedicated to research," I said. "You told me things that led me to make plans, sacrifices, money. You told me you'd go with me if I fought for a scholarship. You disappeared with her and left me without a word."
Kendra's smile slipped. "You invited yourself into our lives," she snapped.
I hit play. The audio filled the hall. It was their voice—laughing in the background—and then a call he had made, the one I never received that night because my phone had been forwarded. The content matched the screenshots: a plan, a promise, and the kind of small cruelty that eats.
The crowd was loud now. Phones lifted. "Oh my God," someone said. "Look at this."
Leonardo tried to take the USB. "Stop this," he said, furious and scared. "You can't—"
"I can," I said.
"How dare you!" Kendra shouted, standing. She tugged at Leonardo's sleeve, but he stepped away. He looked like a man realizing for the first time he had to answer for his choices.
"You're both going to stand here and explain," I said. The auditorium filled with the sound of chairs scraping.
He tried denial. "That's out of context," he said, voice breaking. "It wasn't like that."
Kendra's face crumpled like paper. She went from anger to denial to pleading. "Legacy, you don't understand—"
"I understood enough," I said, and I let the screenshots show their smiles, their plane boarding passes, their embrace in a photo I wasn't supposed to see.
For the first time, Leonardo's confident smile hit a wall. He took a step back. "This is private," he said again. "You ruined us."
Students began to murmur accusations. "Why would he do that?" "She lied?" "They were awful."
I held my gaze. "You used my trust," I said. "You sold me a future and then bought one for yourselves. I deserve everyone to know."
The dean came forward. "We are not here for private fights—"
"This is not private," I said. "This is a pattern. You have called me ungrateful and then told others I overreacted. I have evidence. I am asking that you step down from your board roles and publicly apologize. If not—" I clicked another file and photos from a party showed up where Leonardo and Kendra laughed as I watched from afar. The hall smelled like vinegar.
Leonardo faltered. He put his face in his hands and then tried to speak in a voice that sounded like a man trying to climb out of a well. "I—people—" he began, then couldn't finish. He went through the stages: anger, shock, denial, shame. Kendra shrieked, "You're lying!" and then burst into tears. Students took out their phones. A dozen people circled, whispering and filming. The murmurs became a roar.
He stepped forward to the podium, the last place a cheater should stand when exposed. "I..." he started. "I didn't think—"
The crowd cut him off. "Explain!" someone shouted.
He tried to beg. "Legacy, I—please, don't do this—"
I was merciless. "You took my scholarship chances," I said. "You took my trust. You owe me an apology in front of everyone you fooled."
Kendra's face moved from proud to pale. She tried to stand tall and failed. "I—I'm sorry," she said, the word thin, a paper shield.
Leonardo's ego folded. "I am sorry," he added, "I... I didn't know what I wanted."
The dean watched, eyes tight. "We will investigate," she said, the official phrase. But the room's verdict had already landed. People had seen images, heard audio, watched a couple who had treated one life like a prop. They turned away from Leonardo and Kendra. Phones flashed. Someone clapped slowly, bitterly.
Kendra begged, then pleaded. Her voice thinned out. "Please—" she said. She tried denial and then the curl of shame.
Leonardo's hands shook. He clutched the lectern as if it could anchor him to dignity. Then he left, shoulders hunched.
Outside, cameras and voices swarmed. People took pictures, commented, sent messages. The damage was social and immediate.
They both tried to call me afterward. Kendra left a message, shaky and full of the same old manipulations. "Legacy, it's not that—" she began.
I blocked them.
They had the classic arc: sure, then shocked, then denial, then begging. They watched as friends and supporters drifted away, their reputations thinning like paint in rain. It wasn't law. It wasn't prison. It was a public unraveling that left them small.
For weeks people talked. The two of them were subjects of whispers; their private smiles did not survive public light. I went on. I had Zane. He held my hand in hallways and told me to ignore the noise. He kissed me in crowds and when we were alone. He made me feel safe in a way that felt like living.
Minerva, his mother, called me "daughter-in-law" in jokes. She told me over and over that Zane had healed because I had treated his voice like a person, not a program. "You were brave," she said. "And stubborn."
He still had his moods. He still glared like thunder. But he kept me close.
We had small, careful moments: the way he would put his hand on my head in public, the way he scolded his friends for bad jokes about me, the way he brought me a coat without embarrassing me. He was not a perfect man. He was messy and real, and he had ghosts. I had ghosts too.
A month after the public scene, I sat with him on the bleachers. He pulled out his phone and clicked on that old voice message. It played: "My heart—my whole heart—if we can't meet this life, next life I'll find you for real."
He laughed, a soft sound. "You said that," he said.
"I know," I answered. "I was ridiculous."
He turned to me, eyes honest. "It played on my phone and I thought it was from someone else. When I heard you, I was—" he stopped, looking unsure.
"Scared?" I suggested.
"Jealous, stupid, curious," he said. He cupped my face and kissed me, then added, "And very glad I answered."
We built a life out of small truisms after that—studies, lunches with Minerva, pushes to apply abroad for the trip I had planned. The past was not erased, but it no longer had the power to break me.
There were days when Freja tried little things—rumors, snubs. Brooks and Isaac sometimes laughed too loud at the cafeteria. But their power had faded. The public punishment had not been a violent act. It had been exposure. It had been watching performance end. It had been seeing the people who had made my life small shrink under the light.
Zane and I learned to argue and make up. We practiced kindness. We practiced saying the truth first. We learned to call when the other was upset.
One evening, after a small fight because I had not told him a truth about my scholarship application, I burst into tears. He sat down, put his palm over mine, and said, "Don't store the hard things, Legacy."
"How do you know so much?" I asked.
He smiled. "Because someone kept saying the same thing to me in the dark. You taught me to listen."
At graduation, Minerva packed us a tinfoil-wrapped apple and a note: "You two are ridiculous. Grow slow. Love long."
We laughed. We left the campus hand in hand.
Later, alone in my room, I rewound the voice message. It was the same small ridiculous thing I had shouted into a phone in a corner while bullies circled.
I listened to it again. It was clumsy and brave, a little foolish, and infinitely mine.
"Looks like vows," Zane said from the doorway.
"Vows are serious," I replied.
"Then keep them," he said, stepping in to wind my voice into his chest like a promise.
The message still plays in my head, loud and small: "My heart—my whole heart—if we can't meet this life, next life I'll find you for real."
I smile and press my face into his sweatshirt. The voice that started as service became a life. He had spoken the stupidest line, and now, every time I hear it, I know that in a world of messy people and loud mistakes, some promises stick.
The End
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