I was the one who messaged you first because I had seen you through some of your most difficult and stressful times. So, I thought I should be the one to send you a message of encouragement when you were competing in a beauty pageant.
For some reason, out of all the contestants, I just couldn’t stop looking at you.
And when you came to the centre of the stage to introduce yourself, you fumbled with your speech. Your face turned red, and that raw shyness, along with your tense expression, made me feel like, for God’s sake, I was the only person who could cheer you up.
So I texted you that evening:
“Sorry to see you like that today. For me, you did very well, and please don’t lose hope. You are always the best.”
I wasn’t even expecting a reply.
(To be honest, the writer was walking back and forth on the open rooftop, watching the moon and stars.)
Then suddenly, it wasn’t just a message. You got a call from her.
A straight-up call!
Damn, man! How was I supposed to handle this now? I wasn’t exactly an experienced man when it came to talking to women.
Oh no! That would make me cover my face with a blanket. No, man, I’m not picking up this call.
I avoided the first call, trusting my instinct that another one would come. And it did.
Still, I didn’t pick up.
Then came the final call, just 15 minutes later.
Those painful 15 minutes. How could I ever forget them?
And then, the voice from the other side:
“Hello.”
When I finally pressed the answer button on my old keypad phone.
That hello. Just a single hello was enough to kill me and send me straight to heaven.
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