Unseen Wounds

When He Calls, the Hole Reminds Me

When the phone lights up with his name, I still feel it — that drop in my stomach, like someone pulled the floor out from under me.

It’s not love.

It’s not excitement.

It’s the hole.

The hole isn’t something I can point to on my body. It’s somewhere between my chest and my soul, the place where trust used to live.

When he calls, the memories rush in. The laughter that wasn’t real. The promises he knew he wouldn’t keep. The way he stood there, silent, when I was bleeding in places no one else could see.

I used to answer. Not because I wanted him back, but because part of me hoped this time would be different — that he’d finally say the words that would pour into that empty place and fill it again. But every call ended the same way: the hole was still there. Sometimes even bigger.

That’s when God started whispering to me — “He can’t fill what he broke. That’s my work.”

And I realized… I had been holding my phone like it was a lifeline, when the real lifeline was already in my hands: prayer.

I stopped answering. I started kneeling instead. I told God about the hole, the ache, the longing, and the anger. And slowly, His presence began to fill places I thought would always be empty.

So now, when he calls, I don’t crumble.

I remember — the hole doesn’t belong to him anymore.

It belongs to God, and God is the only one who knows how to make it whole.

Quote to End:

“When he calls, the hole no longer answers — my healing does.”