large_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

medium_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

small_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

thumbnail_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

Novelo Rectangle

Voicemails&nbsp;When she woke up, there were 17 voicemails from a stranger. Or so she thought.&nbsp;Brielle’s phone buzzed again.&nbsp;Another missed call.&nbsp;She squinted at the screen. Same unknown number. Eighteen missed calls now. No name. No text. Just that number.&nbsp;Probably a scammer. She rolled over and let the phone slip from her hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the cheap plastic case splitting slightly at one corner.&nbsp;The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of her TV’s standby light. The air smelled faintly of old takeout—greasy, stale, and familiar. The quilt tangled around her legs was scratchy and too warm, but comforting in its weight, like a shield against the world.&nbsp;Brielle was morbidly obese and barely left the house. Self-conscious and quiet, she kept her head down, always watching the ground. She saw her feet more often than she saw her own face. Mirrors were enemies. The one in her hallway had a film of dust on it.&nbsp;She didn’t have many friends. Her phone rarely rang—and when it did, it was either her job asking for overtime or a bill collector. She was always behind on payments, her mailbox full of red-stamped warnings and final notices.&nbsp;Still, despite her loneliness, she always showed up for others. If someone needed help, she was the first to offer. Being a people-pleaser gave her a flicker of worth. Even if the appreciation wasn’t spoken, it meant something. It gave her control. It gave her a reason to exist.&nbsp;And when you're always alone, you learn to validate yourself as a coping method.She didn’t know why she had this compulsion to please. Maybe it was just in her. Maybe it came from being invisible most of her life.&nbsp;She didn’t have much family. She had never met her biological father. Sometimes she blamed that void for the way she ate—emotional hunger disguised as physical. The ache in her stomach felt eerily close to longing.&nbsp;Food made her feel full. Safe. Loved, in a strange way. The thick, buttery crust of a pie, the soft, cheesy warmth of a pizza—those things gave her what people couldn’t.&nbsp;She had tried to change. Fad diets. Fasting. Expensive weight-loss pills that made her nauseous. She even joined a gym once—but never went back after signing the membership form.&nbsp;She was an only child. No siblings. Her mother had been lost to drugs long ago—a whisper of a person, drifting in and out of lucidity.&nbsp;There were no role models in her life—just the ones on TV. Pretty girls who laughed loudly and had best friends. That world was a fairytale, one she watched like a child at a window, nose pressed against the glass.&nbsp;She often wondered why she was alive. What her purpose was. But the thoughts drained her, so she shoved them aside. Smiled instead. Pretended.&nbsp;When she wasn’t working, she stayed home. Her apartment was her cave—dark curtains, the quiet hum of the fridge, the soft glow of her laptop screen. She watched YouTube videos for hours, lost in the endless scroll.&nbsp;She had a Facebook page she barely touched. She made it hoping to find friends in her new town. She met a few people but always cut ties before things got real. She didn’t think anyone would accept her—not as she was.&nbsp;She was too big for long walks. She didn’t drink. Didn’t go to clubs. Her idea of fun was sitting in a cool, dark movie theater with a tub of popcorn, two candy bars, and a large Big Blue slushy.&nbsp;There, she felt normal. Invisible in the best way. Just another face in the dark.&nbsp;Her phone buzzed again.&nbsp;Nineteen missed calls. Same number.&nbsp;That was odd. Scammers didn’t usually try that hard. And bill collectors? Three calls max.&nbsp;She picked the phone up off the floor and stared at the cracked corner of the screen. Her thumb hovered over the voicemail app.&nbsp;What if it was something real?&nbsp;The app asked for a password.&nbsp;Damn.&nbsp;She tried her birthday. Her old address. Her cat’s name. Nothing.&nbsp;She chewed her thumbnail, scanning the room. A greasy pizza menu sat on the nightstand.&nbsp;Pepperoni, She used that password often.She typed it in using the number pad. Still no luck. Tried again—this time with a “#5” at the end.&nbsp;Access granted.&nbsp;"You have 17 voice messages," the robotic voice said.&nbsp;She pressed play.&nbsp;The first message was just heavy breathing. Low and slow. Not threatening—but not accidental either.&nbsp;She deleted it and moved to the next.&nbsp;Background noise. Indistinct chatter. Maybe a café or a gas station. No voice.&nbsp;Next message: more ambient sound. She heard wind through a crackling speaker, traffic, maybe a turn signal clicking. The sound of breathing again—male. Still no words.&nbsp;Her pulse picked up.&nbsp;Fourth message: silent. Then a faint click.&nbsp;Fifth: music on a fuzzy radio station. Classic rock. Not local.&nbsp;Sixth: “Hello?” Then a pause. Then a hang-up. A voice she didn’t know.&nbsp;Seventh: the same voice. “I’ll try you one more time, and then I’m going to give up.”&nbsp;Her mouth went dry. Her fingers felt cold.&nbsp;Eighth: “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.”&nbsp;Her heart thudded against her ribs.&nbsp;Who could this possibly be? Her facial expression scrunched up as her analytical mind went into overdrive.&nbsp;Convinced it was a wrong number from someone desperate to reach whoever they thought they were calling, she continued down the rabbit hole out of sheer nosiness—listening carefully to the background sounds in each message like a true-crime detective, the kind she watched late at night on television.&nbsp;One after another, the messages played—mostly just static or faint noises—until she got to the very last one.&nbsp;Number 17.&nbsp;“Brielle, this is your father. Your grandmother gave me your number. Please call me back. We need to talk. It’s about your mom. Later.”&nbsp;And then it was over, the message stopped.

Try Premium

Try Premium

Who is it

iamauthentick

self

Share

Who is it

Synopsis

Chapters

Word Count

Read Time

Publish Date

Story Updates

This story has no updates.

Reviews

This story has not been rated yet. Login to review this story.

Advertisement

Challenge

About Author

candy lane

Advertisement

Browse