3 Doors 2 painful 2 Close.

3 Doors 2 Important 2 Forget

It was 3:00 am when the shrill ring tore through the dark living room, pulling her up from uneasy sleep. Groggy, she rubbed her eyes and reached for her glasses, but they weren’t where she thought they’d be. The only light came from the giant flat-screen TV, looping the same random country music videos that had been playing for what felt like twenty years. She’d been back here for almost two months now—homeless again, forced by her own choices to crawl back to the last place she ever wanted to be. Her mother’s house. The place she swore she’d never return to.

Her heart pounded as she squinted at the screen: her own phone number was calling.

Confused, tired, and already annoyed, she answered quickly, trying not to wake the rest of the house.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked slightly.

There was a pause, then a soft giggle—the kind only a middle schooler could make. It sent a cold chill racing down her spine.

“Hey, Egg… is that you?” the voice asked.

Her stomach dropped. Her hands went numb, and the old, fragile flip phone slipped from her grasp. It hit the hardwood floor with a clatter, the cheap plastic battery nearly popping out. She scrambled to catch it before it broke—the thing would fall apart if you so much as looked at it too hard. It was 2025, but her life choices had her back on prepaid burners like it was 2007 again.

She picked it up, her fingers trembling.

“Who is this?” she stammered, though deep down, she already knew. She prayed she was wrong.

The voice on the other end snorted.

“Wow… is this how I’m gonna sound when we’re forty? Eww.”

Her breath caught. She knew immediately. It was her. Fifteen-year-old her.

She broke out into a nervous sweat, her whole body icy and burning at once. This was no dream—she was fully awake now. She tried to say something, but in the background, she heard a faint noise on the other end. A radio show. Art Spencer’s night program.

Her throat tightened. That show hadn’t aired in years. Art Spencer wasn’t even alive anymore… was he?

She cleared her throat and forced out, “Is this some kind of AI joke?”

The young voice laughed, baffled. “AI? As if!”

It was too real. Too specific.

The younger version of herself tried to sound casual but couldn’t hide the tremble.

“The reason I’m calling is… I’m scared,” the girl admitted. “Things here are so tough. Mom… she finally found a house. We’re all gonna be back together soon.”

The older woman’s breath hitched. She knew exactly what was coming.

The younger voice continued, words tumbling out like they’d been bottled up too long.

“I know I’m supposed to be happy, but I’m dreading it. I mean, being homeless the past few months, yeah, it sucked, but… it was kinda safer, you know? Away from Mom.” Her voice cracked. “But now, I’m gonna be back. Raising my sisters while she yells and screams and… does what she does. And I just—”

Her voice trailed off into soft whimpering.

And then it happened. The song playing faintly in the background broke into a verse that made her blood run cold.

She spends her days up in the North Park, watching the people as they pass…

3 Doors Down. A song she hadn’t heard in so long, she’d nearly forgotten it existed. But in that instant, it snapped her straight back in time.

Suddenly, she was fifteen again. In that new bedroom at her mom’s house. It was a dark November evening, cold and damp. Her mother was on top of her, straddling her, hands locked around her throat. Squeezing. Hard.

Things started to go fuzzy. Her vision blurred. The only clear thought that flickered through her brain was: This is how I die.

The memory yanked her under, and she gasped, snapping out of the trance. Tears blurred her eyes. She realized she was whimpering now, right along with her younger self on the other line. Both of them—past and present—crying together.

She forced herself to breathe. To steady her shaking voice.

“Listen, little Egg…” she said, using the old nickname they both hated, though it carried the weight of someone they both still loved.

They both sniffled. And then, despite everything, they let out a small, teary giggle.

She drew in a deep breath.

“I know you’re afraid. And I wish I could tell you that everything gets better once you go back.” She paused, throat thick, because she knew the horror that was coming. But she couldn’t tell her younger self that. Couldn’t crush her. Not now.

Instead, she chose different words.

“I need you to be brave. Let things play out. Keep your heart warm, even when it feels impossible. Be patient. I swear to you, things are about to change forever.”

She almost choked on the last word. Because forever wasn’t entirely true. After that night, she’d be removed from the home—yes—but now, at forty, she was right back in the same place. Full circle. Back at her mother’s.

But she kept that part to herself.

“You’re stronger than anyone’s ever given you credit for,” she continued, voice steadying. “The only way out of the thick of things is to go through it. Your fears? They’re real. They’re valid. But they’re not stronger than your spirit.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then she smiled through her tears. “Remember those creepy monster finger puppets? You used to think they’d get you in your sleep.”

The younger voice giggled again, soft and wet with tears.

They both laughed, for real this time.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Remember who you are… and who you’re not. Hold on tight. Better days are on the way.” Her throat clenched. “I know no one’s told you in a while, but I love you.”

The phone crackled, static hissing at the edges.

But before the line cut out completely, she heard the younger her say:

“I promise I won’t forget if you promise to remember this advice. We got this…”

And then the call dropped.

She sat frozen in the dark, the phone limp in her hand. The TV still flickered with muted country music videos looping endlessly, oblivious to the storm that had just passed through her chest.

She glanced at the clock on the wall.

3:22 am.

Her birthday. March 22.

Her breath shuddered out of her. She was shaken. Still trembling. But beneath the fear, there was something else now. A warmth. A peace. A small flicker of relief.

Maybe, just maybe… things were going to be alright.