Unknown Caller - By Shreya Panwar

Written By: Shreya Panwar

Category: Short Story

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the realm of literary exploration, Shreya Panwar offers a captivating entry titled "Unknown Caller" in the Short Story category. This submission to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 presents a gripping narrative that delves into the complexities of self-awareness and emotional confrontation. Through a mysterious series of phone calls, the protagonist is forced to confront hidden truths and vulnerabilities, weaving a tale of introspection and emotional unraveling.

About the Work

"Unknown Caller" is a haunting exploration of personal fears and the often unspoken truths that we hide from the world and ourselves. The narrative's mood is tense and introspective, unfolding through a series of enigmatic calls that reveal deep-seated insecurities and forgotten memories. The story employs vivid imagery and a reflective tone to create a profound sense of connection between the protagonist and the mysterious caller, leading to a poignant moment of self-realization.

Unknown Caller

Original Submission by Shreya Panwar

“Unknown Caller”

The first call came at 2:17 a.m.

I almost ignored it.

Nobody good ever calls after midnight.

The room was completely dark except for my phone screen glowing beside me,

that pale kind of light that makes everything feel colder than it really is.

Unknown Caller.

No name.

No number.

Just those words sitting there quietly,

as if they already knew I would answer.

And somehow,

that frightened me more than if the phone had screamed.

I picked up anyway.

For a few seconds,

there was nothing.

Then breathing.

Slow enough to sound intentional.

I remember sitting upright immediately,

my heart reacting before my thoughts could.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Not empty silence.

Occupied silence.

The kind that feels like someone standing too close behind you in a dark room.

Then a voice said softly,

“You still sleep on the left side of the bed when you feel like people are leaving you.”

I stopped breathing.

Because it was true.

And because nobody was supposed to know that.

Not even people I loved.

The call ended before I could speak.

Afterward,

I sat awake until sunrise with every light in my apartment turned on,

trying to convince myself there had to be a logical explanation.

A prank.

A coincidence.

Someone guessing.

But fear becomes heavier when it sounds personal.

The second call came three nights later.

2:17 a.m. again.

This time,

I stared at the screen until the ringing almost stopped.

Part of me already knew I would answer.

The voice did not say hello.

It said:

“You reread your messages before sending them because you are terrified of sounding unwanted.”

My chest tightened so suddenly it hurt.

There are certain things people never confess aloud.

Not because they are dramatic.

Because they are humiliating.

The small fears.

The embarrassing tenderness.

The desperate little insecurities hidden beneath ordinary behavior.

That was one of mine.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

Static crackled softly.

Then:

“You apologize too quickly when people seem distant.”

“You rehearse conversations alone afterward.”

“You still remember every person who made you feel difficult to love.”

I could feel my pulse in my throat.

The terrifying thing was not that the caller knew facts about me.

It was that the caller understood me.

Understood me in the way people only do

when they have lived inside your loneliness long enough to memorize its patterns.

After that,

the calls became part of my nights.

Always late.

Always when the world felt abandoned.

Sometimes the voice would speak for only a few seconds.

Sometimes it stayed long enough

to unravel things I had spent years trying to bury beneath routine and exhaustion.

“You pretend to be emotionally independent because needing people embarrasses you.”

“You keep waiting for someone to notice your sadness without having to explain it.”

“You are exhausted from surviving yourself.”

That one made me cry.

Not loudly.

Just quietly enough that it felt pathetic.

The kind of crying where you cover your mouth afterward,

as if even loneliness should be hidden politely.

I stopped sleeping properly after that.

Every night became anticipation.

I would lie awake staring at the ceiling,

phone beside me,

feeling my body tense every time the screen lit up.

During the day,

I still behaved normally.

That was the strange part.

I attended classes.

Answered emails.

Laughed at jokes.

Bought groceries.

Held conversations.

Human beings can continue functioning long after something inside them has started collapsing.

Nobody notices when the disaster is emotional.

The calls changed the atmosphere of everything.

My apartment started feeling unfamiliar.

Mirrors became uncomfortable.

Silence became unbearable.

I began noticing how lonely I actually was.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The kind of loneliness that happens when you have spent years translating yourself into versions other people can tolerate.

The kind where you smile automatically.

Say “I’m fine” automatically.

Pretend you are less sensitive than you really are because honesty feels dangerous now.

One night,

the voice said:

“You miss who you were before the world convinced you softness was weakness.”

I had to sit down on the kitchen floor after that.

Because suddenly I could see her so clearly.

The version of me who used to feel things without apologizing for it.

Who used to talk too much when excited.

Who used to trust people before disappointment taught her caution.

I realized then

that the calls were not revealing new wounds.

They were reopening old ones.

Memories started surfacing afterward.

The sound of my father sighing in disappointment.

Friends drifting away slowly instead of honestly.

The humiliation of pretending not to care when someone hurt me deeply.

The years spent trying to become easier to love.

I started fearing nighttime.

Not because I thought the caller would hurt me.

Because the voice kept forcing me to confront things

I had survived by refusing to look at directly.

Then came the final call.

2:17 a.m.

Rain against the windows.

The room was cold enough that my hands were shaking slightly.

Unknown Caller.

I answered immediately.

For a while,

there was only breathing.

Then the voice asked softly,

“Do you know when you started disappearing?”

Something inside me broke at that question.

Because I did know.

Not exactly when.

But how.

Slowly.

Through self betrayal.

Through silence.

Through pretending.

Through surviving so hard

I forgot how to feel alive while doing it.

Tears were already falling before the voice continued.

“You keep calling yourself lonely,” it said,

“but you abandoned yourself long before anyone else did.”

I could not speak.

The voice sounded exhausted now.

Not cruel.

Not threatening.

Just unbearably sad.

Like someone mourning me while I was still alive.

Then it said quietly,

“You became so focused on being manageable

that nobody ever got to meet the real you.

Not even yourself.”

The line crackled softly.

And suddenly,

something about the voice felt horribly familiar.

Not the sound.

The ache inside it.

The exhaustion.

The restraint.

The loneliness hidden beneath every sentence.

Like listening to every emotion I had swallowed for years finally speak back.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

For a few seconds,

there was only static.

Then:

“I’m the part of you

that got tired of being ignored.”

The call disconnected.

No more calls came after that.

But sometimes,

late at night,

I still wake up at 2:17

with my heart already racing before I even open my eyes.

And sometimes,

in the silence of my apartment,

I realize something that unsettles me more than the calls ever did.

The voice never told me anything untrue.

It only said aloud

the things I had spent years trying not to feel.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and creative expressions across poetry, short stories, and essays. Participants from around the globe are invited to share their unique perspectives and storytelling prowess, contributing to a rich tapestry of contemporary literature. This competition fosters a community of writers dedicated to exploring the depths of human experience through the written word.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Shreya Panwar for her compelling submission, "Unknown Caller," to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story of introspection and emotional discovery resonates with readers and highlights the transformative power of self-awareness. We look forward to seeing more insightful narratives from Shreya in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.