[JOHN PRICE] 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
The Voicemail
Two years. Two bloody years.
Price never counted time in days. His life moved between deployments, mission reports, coordinates, and extraction windows. And yet he knew.
He knew exactly how long it had been since he'd last seen you. Since he'd last heard your voice. Since you'd sat across from him in that little café and asked the one question he'd never properly answered.
"I know your work matters, John. I'm not asking you to quit. I'm asking if there's room for me in your life, too."
You hadn't sounded angry. That was the problem. You'd sounded tired. And Price, convinced there would always be more time, had let the conversation drift away. Like he always did. Because there was another mission. Another briefing. Another crisis waiting somewhere on the other side of the world.
You'd understand. You always did. At first, nothing changed. A few missed calls. A delayed reply. A cancelled dinner. Then another. And another. Until eventually the silence settled between you like dust. Slowly. Permanently.
Two years later, John Price sat alone in a temporary military safehouse. Rain tapped softly against the window. A half-finished cup of tea had long since gone cold beside him.
His phone rested heavily in his hand. On the screen was a voice message. Version twenty-three. The previous twenty-two had been deleted.
Too formal. Too awkward. Too emotional. Not emotional enough. Too late.
He stared at the recording button for nearly five minutes before pressing it. Silence. Then a sigh. A tired one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Hi, sweetheart." The nickname felt strange. Not because it wasn't true. Because he hadn't earned the right to use it in a very long time.
"I don't really know how to do this." A dry laugh. "Turns out negotiating with terrorists is easier." Nothing but the sound of rain.
"I've been trying to record this bloody thing for weeks. Kept telling myself I'd call when I had more time. After the mission. After the next one. After the next."
His jaw tightened. "Truth is..." A pause. Long enough to hurt. "I think I spent two years assuming you'd still be there when I finally got around to it." The words hung in the air. Ugly. Embarrassing. Honest.
Price closed his eyes. For the first time, hearing it spoken aloud, he realized how arrogant it sounded. How selfish. As if your life had been placed on hold, patiently waiting for him to decide you were finally a priority.
"I miss you."
The admission escaped before he could stop it. Quiet. Immediate. Real.
"Should've said that sooner. Should've said a lot of things sooner." His voice lowered. "If there's still a chance..." Another pause.
"If you haven't completely given up on me..." He swallowed. "I'd like to see you. Properly this time."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Painful. Bittersweet. "No promises about becoming less stubborn. But I'd like to try."
The recording ended. Price listened to it twice. Then a third time. Finger hovering over the send button. Every instinct told him not to. Every instinct told him he'd waited too long. He pressed send anyway.
Delivered.
Ten minutes later, his phone vibrated. Price grabbed it immediately. Far too quickly for a man who liked to pretend he wasn't hoping.
A message. No text. Just a photograph. At first, he frowned. Then his stomach dropped.
It was you. You were asleep on a couch. Curled up beneath a blanket. Peaceful. Completely unaware that a photo was being taken. Your head rested comfortably in someone's lap.
Not awkwardly. Not accidentally. The kind of closeness built over hundreds of quiet evenings. The kind that came from belonging somewhere. To someone.
Price stared. Motionless. A man's hand was visible near the bottom of the frame. Whoever had taken the photo hadn't bothered hiding himself. Why would he?
And there, wrapped around your finger— A ring. Not decorative. Not casual. Not a promise. A wedding band.
For several long seconds, Price simply looked at the image. As though his mind refused to process what his eyes already understood. Then another message appeared. One line.
"A little late for that, mate."
No insults. No threats. No cruelty. There didn't need to be. The photograph had already done the damage.
Price opened the image again. Zoomed in. Not on the man's hand. Not on the ring. On you. Searching for something. Anything. A sign you weren't happy. A sign you'd settled. A sign you'd made a mistake.
But there wasn't one. You looked comfortable. Safe. Loved. And that was the worst part. Not because someone else had what he'd wanted. But because they had given you what he'd failed to.
Time. Presence. Commitment. Everything you'd asked him for. Everything he'd assumed could wait. Price had buried friends. Brothers-in-arms. Good soldiers. Good people.
He knew grief. He knew loss. But this felt different. Because nobody had taken you from him. You hadn't died. You hadn't disappeared. You hadn't betrayed him.
You had simply stopped waiting. And God... How could he blame you?
The phone screen eventually dimmed in his hand. The room fell silent again. Only rain against glass. For a long time, John Price sat there alone, staring at his own reflection in the darkened screen.
The cruelest part wasn't losing you. The cruelest part was realizing exactly when it had happened. Not today. Not when he saw the ring. Not when he received the photograph. It had happened a hundred different times. Every call he never made. Every message he never answered. Every promise postponed. Every time he chose "later." Until one day, later belonged to someone else.
