💬 BITE THE BULLET
Bite the Bullet: The Table Before the Call
Five objects. A phone call. The moments just before the waiting ends.
The empty space on the table has scared me more than anything else.
A small wooden table sits next to my bed. Tonight, it holds five objects.
I’ve been staring at them for twenty minutes. I haven’t moved. I haven’t even picked up my phone. I’m just counting the objects, like you might count your breaths as you try to find the courage to do something.
This is a story about the table, the phone call, and the moments just before it.
The first object is a cup of cold tea.
I made it at 8.15. Now it’s 8.47, and the tea is cold. A film sits on top, the kind that forms when tea sits too long.
From where I sit, I can see a crack in the cup. A thin dark line runs from the rim down to the handle. My mother gave it to me years ago, and I’ve never fixed it. I never will.
This cold tea is the first sign that I’m procrastinating, putting off starting my work.
The second object is a phone, lying face up.
The screen is black, but I know what’s there. It’s Mum’s number. I put it in three days ago but never pressed call.
I could have told you I was busy. I could have said I was waiting for the right moment. But the truth is, I was scared.
This is the second sign.
The third object is a folded piece of paper.
I wrote five questions on it, all in my own handwriting:
What did you dream of before you became a mother?
What have you sacrificed?
What did you want to say, but never did?
What’s still unfulfilled in you?
Do you know I’m proud of you too?
I wrote them down because I was afraid I’d forget everything once I heard her voice. I was right. Tonight, I’ve read them four times.
This is the third sign.
The fourth object is a glass of water.
I don’t really know why it’s there. I’m not even thirsty. Maybe I poured it just to have something to do with my hands.
Condensation runs down the side of the glass, leaving a small ring on the wood. I keep staring at it. Years ago in Dhaka, on the back steps of our house, my mother’s glass left a mark just like this. We sat together in silence, not knowing it would be the last time we saw each other.
This is the fourth sign.
The fifth object is nothing.
There’s nothing else on the table except the cup, the phone, the paper, and the glass. Then there’s that empty space, where the fifth thing should be.
This empty space is the fifth sign.
It’s the place where the answer will come to rest, where her voice will arrive, where the very thing I’ve avoided for so long will finally come into being.
This blank space is the future, and I’m still scared of it.
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes now.
I keep telling myself, not yet. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when I feel calmer and know what to say.
But I’ve been saying that for three years. Three years just waiting for ‘tomorrow’. Three years of cold tea, folded paper, and a huge emptiness.
My mother keeps getting older. My courage doesn’t. The questions aren’t getting easier, either.
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The ‘right time’ will never come. That’s the truth. There’s no such thing as a ‘right time’. There’s just this table, these things, this phone, and an empty void.
I pick up the cup.
The tea has gone cold. I still have it, though. It tastes like tannin and time.
I pick up the paper, read the five questions one last time, then fold it and put it in my pocket. I know that as soon as I hear her voice, I’ll forget them all.
I take the phone in my hand.
My thumb hovers over the call button.
I remember the back stairs, the glass of water, and the silence that settled between us. When we spoke for the last time, I didn’t realize it would be the last.
I still have the notebook where I wrote everything down. The invisible thread. The cracked teacup. Everything I wrote about her was for myself. I never sent it to her.
I wonder: what if she doesn’t want to answer? What if she gets annoyed? What if I mess it up completely?
Then I wonder again: what if she’s left, and the questions are still there, unanswered and hanging?
The empty space on the table is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
I press the call button.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
After the fourth ring, she answers.
“Hello?”
Her voice sounds the same — calm and familiar, like a song that’s always played in the house.
I open my mouth to speak, but the five questions I had carefully prepared have vanished. I can’t remember any of them.
“Are you there?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here.”
So I ask the only question that’s still in my mind.
“Amma, may I ask you something?”
I don’t know what she’ll say.
I’ve stopped writing. The story is over. It’s not that I don’t want to share the rest with you. The real point is in the question itself. This is the bullet. The bite is the asking, not the answer. Means, what matters is asking, not finding the answer.
The table is still where it was. The cup has gone cold and sits empty. The paper is in my pocket. What was once a space no longer feels like one.
Now, her voice is in it.
And I’m still here, holding my phone, waiting for an answer that might never come.
What do you have in front of you right now?
Is there something you’ve been wanting to share?
💬🖤📚☕
Thank you for reading. ❤️ Your support means the world.
If my words have ever meant something to you and you want to support this quiet work, you can do that here.
I’m tagging Manmeet Singh Bhatia, and thank you for this beautiful invitation to reflect. 🙏
This story is part of “Bite the Bullet: A Writing Challenge” hosted by Write Your World. Write about the hard, uncomfortable thing you can no longer put off, and what it takes to finally face it. Submissions close on 25 October. Take a breath, and bite the bullet.
