​The Next Call

He waited for the next call. It was past midnight. He had just finished a cup of coffee, and it had been days since he’d had a proper night’s sleep. He was a suicide-helpline operator.

It wasn’t a particularly busy night. Earlier, he’d taken one call—a teenage boy playing a prank. That was common. Now he sat alone again, eyes heavy.

The phone rang.

He answered.

At first there was only silence—then soft, heavy breathing. A girl. She was crying.

He kept his voice calm. “Take your time. I’m here.”

Silence again. Then a whisper.

He followed the script: gentle, open-ended questions, validation, space to speak. Slowly she began to talk.

Her name was Neha.

She described her house, the color of her walls. She said she felt no one would care if she disappeared. He assured her that wasn’t true.

He asked if she had a plan. She said no. He confirmed the risk was low. With low risk, he wasn’t required to inform the police.

By the end of the call, she seemed calmer. He felt calmer too. He sat there for a while in silence, his heavy eyes now focused.

At 2 a.m. his shift ended.

He stood, packed his bag, and left the office.

The streets were quiet. Driving, he listened to a song he liked. After an hour he reached a house outside the city.

It was a stand-alone home—dark, still.

He climbed the red wall, entered through the back door, and moved silently through the house.

Her bedroom door was slightly open. She was asleep, dried tears streaking her cheeks.

He watched her for a moment.

Then he pulled on his gloves.

From the bag he took a cloth. In one swift motion, he gagged her mouth and tied her hands behind her back. She woke in shock, but he moved fast.

Her terrified eyes locked on his.

“You know who I am,” he whispered. “I’m the one who just talked to you.”

He smiled, then tightened the cloth around her neck.

She kicked and fought, but he held firm.

“Why are you fighting? I’m here to help you.”

She tried to move, but his grip was so strong she could barely twitch.

When she stopped moving, he let go.

He searched the room, opened her closet, and took out a bedsheet.

Switching off the ceiling fan, he pulled over a table, tied one end of the sheet to the fan, and formed a noose with the other. Then he lifted her.

She gasped awake and struggled as he slipped the noose around her neck and kicked the table away. Her body jerked, twitched—then went still.

He stood for a moment, watching as the last light faded from her eyes. “Take your time,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

Afterward, he wiped down the room.

By the time he reached his flat, it was almost dawn. He showered, went to bed, and slept deeply.

The next evening he returned to his shift.

He sat at the desk, placed the red diary beside him, opened to a fresh page, and wrote her name—Neha—then drew a line through it. No emotion. No ceremony. Just another entry.

He didn’t kill often—only when the urge returned, when the voice on the other end felt right: lonely, quiet, forgotten. Sometimes it took weeks, sometimes months.

There was no rush.

There was always another call.

The phone rang.

He smiled—

and answered.