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I didn’t know what to ask her.

I went there,

recited a poem,

and she wrote her number

on a small piece of paper.

She pressed it into my hand

with such certainty,

as if she really wanted me

to call her that night.

I didn’t.

Then I forgot.

A week slipped away.

When I finally called,

she wasn’t the same girl anymore.

Her voice had changed.

Not the sound of it,

but the place it came from.

I managed to ask,

“How are you?”

She answered.

But she never asked,

“Why are you calling?”

That’s when I realized:

Every number has a value,

but only while it survives

its own time zone.

Some numbers

are meant to disappear.

They arrive,

leave a pulse in your mind,

and fade before

they ever become a memory.

Her number

was one of those.

Something special.

Not because I lost it,

but because

I answered it

too late.