The Wrong Number

New phone, same old habit, two a.m., the same mistake,
I typed your number from memory, the one I'll never shake.
I said, "I'm sorry for the summer, I'm sorry for the fight,"
and a stranger answered, "Who is this? It's two a.m., goodnight."

I texted your old number, and a stranger wrote me back,
"I think she's doing fine, man, you should cut yourself some slack."
Now somebody else is living in the number that was you,
and she reads every sorry, and she doesn't know what to do.

Now she sends me memes on Sundays, says her boyfriend's kind of dumb,
says, "Stop texting at two, man, I promise you, she's done."
I told her how you hum when you cook, how you laugh behind your hand,
and the stranger said, "She sounds amazing. I get it. I understand."

I texted your old number, and a stranger wrote me back,
"I think she's doing fine, man, you should cut yourself some slack."
Now somebody else is living in the number that was you,
and she reads every sorry, and she doesn't know what to do.

Then she asked me, "Did you ever say it to her face?"
And I didn't. I just loved you from a safe and quiet place.
She said, "Stop telling me, man. Go and tell her. Go."
And for once, somebody said the thing I needed to know.

So I found your real number, and my hands are shaking bad,
no stranger this time, just you, and the best thing that I had.
And it's ringing in the dark, and I don't know what I'll do,
but this time it's not the wrong number. This time it's you.

Ring... ring...
"Hello?"