When the Phone Stops Lighting Up
The quiet grief of one-sided friendships—and how we slowly build a life that feels less lonely.
Aisha sat at the small table by her apartment window, watching the city’s lights flicker on, one by one, like distant conversations she wasn’t part of.
Her phone lay face up beside her cup of tea. No new messages. The last chat in her WhatsApp list was two weeks ago: a former colleague had forwarded a meme and sent a thumbs-up. Before that, months of her own “Let’s catch up soon?”, “How are things?” “Coffee next week?”—each answered politely and briefly, with no initiation from the other side.
Tonight, she didn’t send another message.
For the first time in years, she let the silence stand.
At first, nothing felt different. She still went through the motions: work emails, reheated dinner, scrolling through the news. But over the next few days, the realisation settled in like dust on unused furniture: when she stopped reaching out, her phone stopped lighting up.
The hurt was sharp and oddly humiliating.
Had she really imagined it all? The long lunches, the shared complaints about bosses, the birthday reminders she never forgot. She replayed old conversations in her head and, with new eyes, noticed how often she had been the one asking, “And how are you really?” and how rarely anyone had asked it back.
One Thursday evening, she stayed late at the office to avoid going home. In the quiet hum of the almost-empty floor, she opened her laptop, intending to dive back into work. Instead, she opened a blank document and wrote at the top:
“People I feel lonely around.”
Names came faster than she expected. Old-school friends whose group chat never moved unless she posted. Colleagues who invited her when they needed help, not when they were celebrating. Even a cousin who only called when he wanted a loan.
She stared at the list, her chest tight.
Then, on a new line, she typed:
“People I feel safe around.”
For a long time, her hands hovered over the keyboard.
Finally, she wrote: “Mak.” Her mother, who never remembered dates but always noticed the tiredness in her voice.
Then: “Uncle Rashid,” who called once a month just to talk about books and football.
Then: “Farah (from uni).” She hadn’t seen Farah in three years, but every conversation they had felt like stepping into a warm room.
The second list was shorter—but it felt different. Solid. Real.
The loneliness didn’t evaporate. If anything, it became clearer, more defined. It wasn’t just about being alone on a Thursday night; it was about how unseen she felt in so many of her so-called connections.
The next day, in a rare act of courage that felt small but seismic, she decided not to chase anyone.
Instead, she went to a nearby park after work. She walked slowly, letting the air cool her face, then sat on a bench near the jogging track. Families passed by. A group of older women laughed loudly as they power-walked, their headscarves fluttering. A man in his fifties stretched carefully before running, his movements deliberate, as if each step had been negotiated with his knees.
Aisha watched them and felt something stir—not quite envy, not quite longing. Just a recognition that the world was full of people trying to fill their evenings with something that felt less like emptiness.
That night, instead of scrolling, she picked up her phone and opened a different chat.
Farah.
Her last message from two years ago read: “I know we’re both busy, but I’m still here, ok?”
Aisha read it three times. Then she typed:
“Hi, Farah. I’ve been thinking of you. It’s been too long. Would you be up for a video call this week? No pressure.”
She hit send and immediately wanted to take it back. It felt almost embarrassing to reach across so much time. But the message was gone. The three little dots didn’t appear. She put the phone down and went to wash the dishes, berating herself for hoping.
Ten minutes later, when she came back, the screen was glowing.
Farah: “AISHA! You just made my day. Yes, please. I’ve missed you. When is good?”
Something inside Aisha loosened. It was a small thing—a single reply—but it came from someone who didn’t need anything from her, who wasn’t waiting for her to organise the next thing. Someone who had missed her.
They spoke for nearly two hours that weekend. They compared grey hairs, laughed about old lecturers, and admitted to new fears: ageing parents, feeling stuck in mid-career, the strange weight of being “successful on paper” yet quietly lonely.
At one point, Aisha said, “Sometimes I feel like if I stopped trying, half my friendships would just disappear.”
Farah hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve felt that too,” she said softly. “But maybe the ones who disappeared were never really holding you, you know? Maybe they were just resting on your efforts.”
The words landed heavy and gentle at the same time.
After they hung up, the apartment was still quiet, but it felt less hostile. The silence was no longer proof that no one cared; it was simply space. Space in which something different might grow.
Ramli Amir (ramgold@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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