Because Then I Won’t Be Me

He called her that evening, heart pounding louder than the ringtone in her ears.

"I want to talk to you," he said, voice soft, almost trembling.

She stared at the ceiling, her silence louder than words.

"No, you can't," she replied, holding her breath.

"But why? Is it too much to ask for?" he pressed, that familiar desperation sneaking in.

"It isn't," she admitted, voice steady, "but still—no."

The line crackled with the weight of things unsaid.

"Why on earth is that something big to ask?" he asked again, not angry, just lost.

"Because I don't want it," she whispered. "Isn't that enough?"

He was quiet then, but only for a second.

"I won’t even ask to talk to you ever again," he said. "Just tell me why. Just... why?"

Her thumb hovered over the red button. She wanted to end it there—clean, simple. But something stopped her. Maybe kindness. Maybe love. Maybe both.

She took a breath and answered,

"Because then I won't be me anymore."

And she hung up.

That night, neither of them slept. And yet, something ended so quietly it almost felt like peace.