(Present Day)

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Emma sat at the small kitchen table, staring at her phone. It sat motionless beside a cup of cold tea she had forgotten to drink, as silent as it had been for months. No calls. No messages. Just stillness.

Outside, she could hear faint laughter drifting from the park, children playing, their voices blending with the rustle of autumn leaves. The world outside moved on, unaware of the storm that swirled inside her. She closed her eyes, trying to block it out. But the silence in her own life felt suffocating.

Her fingers twitched toward the phone, but she didn’t touch it. What was the point? The one person she wanted to call would never call her again.

(Flashbacks)

It had been just another Wednesday. She’d been curled up on her couch, half-watching a show, half-scrolling through emails for work. The fight from the night before still lingered in her mind. Something trivial. Stupid.

Her phone buzzed beside her, and when she glanced at the screen, her mother’s name flashed across it. She’d ignored the last few calls out of stubbornness, her own anger still too fresh.

She hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the "decline" button.

But for some reason, she answered.

"Hello?" she said, her voice cold, distant.

Her mother’s voice was shaky on the other end. "I don’t feel well… I think something’s wrong."

Emma sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. "Mom, it's probably nothing. You always get like this," she said, irritation lacing her words. She tried to keep her tone level, but the exhaustion from their argument clouded her judgment. "Just… calm down, okay?"

There was a pause. A soft, painful silence stretched between them, and for a second, Emma thought her mother might say something.

Then, her mother’s voice came back, quieter this time. "Okay… maybe you’re right. I’ll just go to bed."

Emma didn’t respond. Didn’t say goodbye. There was a click, and the call ended.

She had gone back to her show, convinced her mother was fine. Convinced that the panic in her voice was just another symptom of her worrying too much.

But that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t fine at all.

Hours later, the phone rang again. This time, it was 3 a.m. Her father’s voice was a blur of sobs and broken words.

"She’s gone, Emma. Your mom… she’s gone."

She hadn’t even registered what he was saying at first. The words didn’t make sense. Her mother had been fine. She was just supposed to go to bed, to sleep off whatever anxiety had made her voice shake.

But she hadn’t slept through the night.

A heart attack, the doctors had said. Sudden. Quick. Too fast to do anything.

But Emma knew better. She could have done something. She could have driven over, called an ambulance, insisted that her mother go to the hospital. But she hadn’t. And now, her last words to her mother—sharp, dismissive—were all she had left.

She dropped the phone that night, her hands shaking. The weight of her guilt settled into her chest like a stone, and it hadn’t moved since.

Now, months later, the weight hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

She hadn’t talked to her friends in weeks. Invitations to dinner, texts asking how she was doing—she left them all unanswered. The phone had become a constant reminder, sitting on her table like a silent judge. The missed calls from her mother played in her mind over and over again, a cruel loop she couldn’t break.

Her fingers traced the edge of her phone. She thought about calling someone—anyone. Her father. A friend. Even a stranger. But every time she thought about reaching out, her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

"Just go to bed…"