It started innocently enough, random static on the line, a dropped call here or there. Soon, I was getting yelled at for not responding to texts I never received. I tried to show him they never came through. “You probably just erased them,” was his response.

I took my phone to the shop for repairs. The technicians swore there was nothing wrong, that it was my fault, that I was just another dumb teenage girl who knew nothing about my own electronics. They didn’t understand that all my attempts at communication with friends and family came off without a glitch, that it couldn’t be me.

It got worse, I started getting nasty voicemails chastising me for never answering a phone that didn’t ring. Then he confronted me with a stream of whiny, accusatory texts from my number about him and Amber flirting in study hall, sitting with their heads together, whispering in the back corners of the library. He berated me for being insecure, swore he never even spoke to Amber. I cried, begged him to believe that I never sent those messages.

He didn’t believe me. He started avoiding me at school, refused to take the calls I did make, deliberately made a point of seeking out Amber to say hello. I was confused, frustrated, angry, miserable. Mostly, I just wanted him back. I took to just sitting in my room, staring at the phone, praying his number would light up my screen.

When the screen finally lit up, it wasn’t him. It wasn’t anyone. There was no incoming number, only tiny digital print. Stop crying. It’s pathetic. You can do better.

Damn nosey “smart” phone. What the hell did it know?!

*

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work on Twitter @Poetess222.