The Call That Came on Rose Day

In the quiet monotony of the evening, the phone rang—a rare occurrence, a forgotten echo from school days. She never called unless necessity dictated: a Netflix subscription, a fleeting favor, something inconsequential. And yet, today, her voice carried something different, something unsettlingly casual. She wanted to go out. A movie. A park. A space shared between two people. The request, simple in form, clung to the air like an unspoken riddle. Today, of all days. A day of roses, of gestures, of meanings too obvious to ignore. And I, bound by the machinery of my own hesitations, spoke in the only way I knew—like a man trapped in the logic of others. Her boyfriend, I mentioned. Would he approve? The question hung, absurd and misplaced, as though seeking refuge in propriety. I repeated it, like a man convincing himself of his own script. Again and again, until the words became hollow. Finally, retreating into the comfort of detachment, I uttered a compromise: “Plan a place for all our friends, where we may spend time together.” And with that, I severed the line. The call ended not with resolution, but with the vague weight of something unspoken—an unfinished thought in the architecture of an ordinary evening.