The Message Meant for Someone Else

The message arrived on a sleepy Tuesday morning, tucked quietly between spam offers and unread notifications. It was a voicemail from an unfamiliar number. Amelia Palmer, caught in the blur of back-to-back Zoom meetings and a growing inbox, gave it a quick listen while refilling her coffee. The voice on the other end was warm and syrupy sweet.

“Hey Lila, it’s Maren. I just wrapped up pilates and thought I’d call before your shift. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. You’re thoughtful and radiant and wickedly smart. I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’ll see you tonight, babe. Love you.”

And just like that, the message ended.

Amelia blinked once, gave a soft smirk, and pocketed her phone. It had clearly been sent to the wrong person. She figured she’d shoot a text later to let the woman know she had the wrong number. But the day steamrolled her—emails, conference calls, dinner duty, and school pickup for her ten-year-old son, Elliot. The voicemail was forgotten as quickly as it had come.

A week later, Amelia’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was her auto insurance broker leaving a reminder about policy renewal. After that call, she noticed the still-untouched voicemail sitting in her inbox. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, she hit “play” again.

The voice—Maren’s voice—washed over her like a gentle tide. There was a richness to her tone, a velvet sincerity. It wasn’t just what she said; it was how she said it. The way she told Lila she loved her felt honest, lived-in, comforting.

Elliot bounced into the car with his backpack askew. “Hey, Mom!”

“Hi, buddy,” she replied, trying to infuse her voice with some of that same softness. She wanted to be the kind of parent whose voice felt like a blanket on cold days.

Still, she didn’t delete the voicemail. It lingered like a forgotten note in a drawer—unread, but not unimportant.

Days melted into weeks. The voicemail remained, nestled among calendar alerts and birthday reminders.

Then came the call from Luke, her ex-husband. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday.

“My lawyer’s reviewing everything now. We should be good to file by Monday,” he said.

“Thanks,” Amelia responded, stiff and formal.

“I’m glad we’re doing this amicably, Ames,” he added.

“Don’t call me that.”

There was a pause, followed by the barely-suppressed sigh she knew too well. “Alright, Amelia.”

She could hear the annoyance in his voice, the petty edge. Before he could say something that’d ruin the rest of her day, she ended the call.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, Amelia stared at her phone. Almost instinctively, she pulled up the voicemail and hit “play.”

Maren’s words filled the quiet room.

Luke had never spoken to her like that. Even in their happiest days, he wasn’t the man to say “I’m lucky to love you.” He’d been dutiful, in a mechanical way—providing, checking off boxes—but never adoring. Never soft. Never vulnerable.

Amelia felt a dull ache in her chest. She didn’t know Maren or Lila, but she envied them. She envied that kind of love, the easy intimacy wrapped in just a few sentences. It was love without performative grand gestures, just affection in its purest, simplest form.

She listened to that voicemail many more times over the next several months. As the divorce finalized, as she adjusted to single parenting, as she took on a more demanding role at work, it became her secret source of comfort. When life felt unmoored, she’d play it, sometimes with her eyes closed, imagining what it might feel like to be on the receiving end of that message.

The queer nature of it tugged at her too.

She hadn’t spoken much about her past relationships with women, not even to Luke. Before settling down and doing what she thought was “right,” she’d dated women. But she buried that part of herself deep beneath suburban expectations and PTA meetings. Now, without a husband tethering her to the version of life she no longer believed in, she found herself wondering again—where do I belong?

Once, she even typed out a text to the number: “Hi, this is the number you accidentally called—” She stopped. What would she say after that? “Your love message helped me during my divorce” sounded like the setup to a therapy podcast.

She never sent the text.

Then one icy January morning, Amelia’s phone slipped from her coat pocket while wrangling Elliot into the car. She didn’t notice it at the time, not until she arrived at her office and went to retrieve it. When she returned home and found it, it had been driven over—twice. It looked like modern art. Shards of screen glittered in the driveway.

Amelia crouched down, frost biting at her knees, and cradled the pieces. Her hands trembled. It wasn’t the inconvenience of a broken phone that made her eyes sting. It was the message. Gone. No backup, no saved number. Just lost.

She bought a new phone. The fanciest one available, congratulating herself for earning yet another promotion. But no technological marvel could replace what had been lost. Over the next few weeks, she found herself checking the voicemail tab now and then, knowing full well there was nothing there. It was like returning to a grave.

Spring arrived. Elliot’s school year wound down. One sunny Saturday in June, they spent the afternoon at a community pool. Amelia reclined beneath a striped umbrella, toying with a crossword puzzle while the kids shrieked and splashed.

And then—her phone rang.

The number was familiar, intimate even, though unsaved. Her heart jolted.

She stared at the screen, frozen. Two rings. Three.

She swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Lila?” came the voice. Maren’s voice.

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. “No,” she whispered, praying she wouldn’t hang up.

“Oh! Sorry—I must have dialed the wrong number again,” Maren said with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m still using an old rotary phone at my mom’s. It’s like playing number roulette.”

“No, wait—don’t hang up,” Amelia blurted.

Silence.

“…Yes?”

“I think you called me last year by mistake. You left a voicemail. About your girlfriend?”

Maren exhaled slowly. “Oh wow. I remember that. I felt so bad—didn’t realize until hours later. I assumed it went nowhere.”

“No, it came to me,” Amelia said softly. “And it meant… a lot.”

Another silence stretched, this one more curious than awkward.

“I had just started going through a divorce,” Amelia continued. “It was awful. That voicemail, the way you spoke to her… I don’t know. It reminded me that love like that exists. That maybe I shouldn’t give up looking for it.”

“Oh,” Maren said. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Amelia assured her. “I just wanted you to know that your words mattered. Even to a stranger.”

There was a pause. Amelia wondered if she’d said too much. Admitted too much.

“Well,” Maren said at last, her voice shifting into the same warmth that had once soothed Amelia’s tears. “I’m glad it helped. That means a lot.”

Across the pool, Elliot was waving frantically from the top of the slide, calling for her to watch.

“I have to go,” Amelia said quickly, her throat tightening. “But thank you, Maren. Really.”

“Wait,” Maren said. “Are you… local? Near Greenville?”

“Yeah. East side.”

“My girlfriend and I host a trivia night every other Thursday at Daisy’s Bar on Main. Just a group of women who like to drink, laugh, and show off their completely useless knowledge. You should come.”

Amelia laughed. “You think it’ll help me find someone?”

“I make no promises,” Maren replied with a grin in her voice. “Unless you’re into women, in which case, you never know.”

“I am,” Amelia said before she could second-guess herself. “I used to be. Maybe I still am. I don’t really know anymore.”

“Well, then definitely come,” Maren said. “If not for romance, then for good company. I promise no more accidental voicemails.”

Amelia smiled, her heart thudding in a way it hadn’t in years. “What’s the address again?”

“Daisy’s Bar. Main and 12th. 7:00 PM. Next Thursday.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, feeling something strange blooming inside her—hope.

“Awesome. Oh, sorry—what’s your name?”

“Amelia.”

“I’m Maren.”

“I know.”

They both laughed, the sound light and full of possibility.