The Room Where No One Hears Her Voice

My name is Selena, and it feels as though I have been left inside this apartment for a very long time. Though I can count three full days of being here alone, time sometimes stretches so far that I can no longer tell where day ends and night begins.

This apartment sits right in the heart of a vast city. Outside, there are cars rushing past, people hurrying by, the constant hum of life moving onward. Inside this room, however, the silence is so deep that my own ears ring. I came here hoping to rest — or at least I told myself it was rest. But for these past three days I have barely stepped outside. I stay shut within these walls, eating very little, reading, sleeping. And every hour, one longing grows stronger: for someone to find me. For someone to know I am truly here.

At first I thought it was only loneliness. I told myself it was just exhaustion clouding my mind. That everything was still normal — even though I felt drained, even though the air in the room seemed thick enough to make breathing difficult. I kept telling myself it was the city. It was work weariness. It would pass. I still waited to hear from those who loved me. I still believed fully that they would hear my voice too.

Then my phone rang. It was my coworker. I answered instantly, trembling with joy, thinking at last someone had thought of me. I cried out immediately:

“Hello ! I’m here ! I’m in the apartment !”

My coworker’s voice came clearly through the line: “Selena ? Where are you ? Why haven’t you replied ? I’ve called so many times — I’m really worried.”

I shouted back again: “I hear you ! I’m really here !”

But he kept speaking as if he had not heard me at all. “Why are you so quiet ? What’s wrong ? I can’t hear you at all.”

Panicked, I tapped the phone, checked the microphone, repeated until my throat grew dry: “I’m here ! I hear every word ! Why can’t you hear me ?”

Yet from the other end there was only his voice calling my name, as though I were nothing more than a lost signal. Finally he said, “I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ll try calling others. I’m so worried,” and hung up.

I stood frozen there for a while. I did not understand what had happened. I thought the phone must be broken. That the signal in this building was terrible, even though this was a huge city. But this room felt wrapped in something — something that kept my voice from reaching anyone at all.

I walked over to the sofa near the window. There was soft daylight filtering in, yet for some reason it felt unnaturally cold. I picked up the book I had brought to read, but my eyes could not focus. My mind kept returning to my coworker, my sister, my mother — to the terrible certainty that I was truly alone. I decided I would call my sister in the afternoon just so she would know where I was. I dialled and waited; only the repeated ringing tone followed. No one answered. I told myself she must be busy working. That it was bad timing. That the signal had failed again. So I tried calling Mother, certain she would answer.

This time Mother picked up. Her voice sounded weak: “Hello ? Selena ? Is that you ?”

I replied instantly, thrilled: “Mother ! I’m here ! I’m in the apartment !”

Mother continued speaking: “Daughter ? I can barely hear you. Where are you ? Answer me … I’m so worried.”

I cried out until my throat was raw: “I’m here ! Can you hear me ? Is the signal broken ? I’m all alone here !”

But Mother kept calling my name as though she had never received my voice. “Selena … Answer me … I can’t hear you at all …”

Despair washed over me. I repeated myself many times more, yet the space between Mother and me became an abyss that I could not cross.

At last Mother said, “If you hear me, call back … I will keep searching for you,” and hung up.

I set the phone down weakly on the table. I truly no longer knew whether it was the phone, the building’s signal, or whether I myself was turning into something no one could hear anymore. Still then I told myself I was merely lonely. Merely exhausted. Merely begging for someone to find me.

That night the feeling of breathlessness grew far worse. I knew this sensation well — asthma. At first I told myself it was only tiredness, only poor air inside the room. I tried breathing slowly, sitting still, dragging myself toward the inhaler beside the bed. But my mind began to blur too much to move quickly. I panicked terribly. I tried screaming for help. Calling Mother’s name. Calling my coworker’s name. I did not know whether any of it reached anyone. Then everything faded into soft darkness. I told myself I would simply fall asleep. That it would get better. That when I woke someone would surely call.

When I returned to awareness, it felt just like waking to a new morning. The room remained unchanged — quiet, with morning light slipping through the window. I thought I must have slept through the night deeply. That the asthma had eased. That soon someone would come. Then I heard knocking at the door. First soft, then louder. I turned toward the door with real hope, thinking at last someone had found me. Someone knew I was here !

But instead of calling for me to open, I heard a key turn in the lock. Click … The door opened. The landlord stepped in, followed by my Mother. I rushed toward them, crying out: “Mother ! I’m here ! I’m really here !”

Yet they never looked toward me. They walked straight to the bed as though I were nothing more than air floating through this room.

I followed slowly — and that was when my whole world shattered.

On the bed … lay my body. Still. Pale. My hand resting near the inhaler that had never been lifted. Mother knelt beside the bed, sobbing hopelessly. The landlord stood nearby with a sorrowful face. I remembered clearly then: I had died three days before. Back then the asthma had struck. I had panicked, tried to reach the inhaler — but it had been too late.

Everything that had followed was not merely bad signal. Not merely loneliness. Not merely exhaustion. I had already left them behind. What I had heard through the phone was the living world calling for me. Everything I had tried to send back — no one heard. All I had wanted was to be found. And finally they had found … yet not me. They had found my body.

Now I remain here still, inside this apartment. I watch them. I call to them. But no one hears. I am no longer just waiting to be found. I have become what was left behind. A permanently lost signal. A voice that can never reach anyone again.

Mother keeps calling my name: “Selena … My daughter …”

I stand right here, crying back hopelessly: “I’m here Mother … I’m really here …”

But no one turns. No one hears. Because three days ago … I was no longer truly with them.

The room stays silent. The great city keeps moving onward. But I … remain here. Waiting … waiting for someone to hear my voice once more — even though I already know no one ever will again.