Silence was never my favorite companion.
If nobody was talking, I made sure to fill the space.
There’s this old photograph in mom’s album—I'm playing with the phone, all smiles and tangled cords. At one point, no matter what I was doing, I’d drop everything and run to answer the ringing phone.
Talking has always been my therapy.
Even with changing ways of communicating—messages, emails, chats, calls—I still get excited.
There’s something about it: knowing someone far away is thinking of you, or getting to hear their voice. That alone makes me happy.
Growing up away from most of my family, calls were what kept us close. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s just the magic of voices.
I’ve never been a fan of messages. They miss things.
They don’t catch the pauses, the tone, the in-betweens.
Voice does.
Hearing someone say things—hearing them hmmm at your sentences—there’s a charm to it I can’t explain.
I think granny’s and uncle’s calls were the most anticipated for the longest time.
After school, I’d tell them how the day went, gossip about every tiny detail of my life.
I never even wondered why they put up with it. It was just our thing.
That custom carried on, for as long as she was around and I was home.
Such innocence, I must say.
Looking back, the glee of those conversations—the fact that everything could be spoken out loud—was beautiful.
And then life happened.
Secrets swept in.
Friends, new likes and dislikes, the heaviness of growing up started shifting the conversations.
Choices had to be made—who gets to hear what.
When I got my own phone, I found someone who talks like me.
Funny enough, I don’t think my record of talking for hours on the phone is with a boyfriend nor a crush—it’s with her.
For 10, maybe 15 years, we’ve spoken for hours almost every single day.
She is my best friend. 🧡
Through all the complexities of life, we talked—this and that.
We polished our ideas, shaped our ideologies. That was comforting.
Even in the worst of times, and through all the relocations and immigration, nothing stopped us from talking.
Such connections I made.
Life shifted in unpredictable ways.
For me, for them—
the call list kept altering.
Some calls became more frequent,
some faded away.
Some brought joy,
some stirred memories.
Some were peaceful,
and some—just spam.
Now, I have a few mandatory calls I make every day— to my constants.
The little bits of time I owe to family: mom, aunt, sister, cousins.
Being oceans away from home, they’ve become part of the routine.
Missing just one throws off my whole mood.
Remember—talking is my therapy.
Over the years, the list of people I call daily has shrunk.
No more confusion about repeating stories. No more overlaps.
Just a small, precious slice of time I get to talk.
And guess what?
Silence stayed—
with a smile of victory.
Despite my dislike.
An unacknowledged companion,
silence stayed for the rest of the time,
staring at my phone that rarely rang. ❤️
