They met me about two weeks after surviving a near-fatal accident.
And two weeks after meeting them, I was turning thirty. We hadn’t met in person yet.
On my birthday, they wrote, “I think everything is going to be really beautiful for you from now on.
You’re turning thirty. The days when you know what you want and what you don’t want, when you live just for yourself, are beginning.
And I’m happy to be going through this with you.”
I was on the terrace, dancing under the warm sun, sipping my whiskey.
I was buzzing from the inside out.
Turning thirty made me feel sexy.
I had someone I was truly excited about.
Life, I thought. Right now, everything is exactly as it should be.
I was so happy. I took a few photos of myself and sent them.
“I guess today is my birthday. Seeing your photo, I lose my mind,” they wrote.
When they asked what I expected from my thirties, I said, “To become more useful—to myself, and to the world.”
Someone in their family had the same birthday as me.
So they had traveled to their hometown for the occasion.
By evening, I was out celebrating my thirtieth.
They were drinking with friends.
Later that night, they sent a message with a huge blank space stretching down the screen, and a few letters and numbers at the bottom.
I laughed, thinking, How did they even manage that?
The next morning, they wrote, “Looks like I put in real effort just to text you last night, even when I was that drunk.
I surprised myself. Because normally, after two drinks, I put my phone down.”
“You’re so sweet,” I said.
But two weeks after my birthday, I found myself in a reality that I just couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried.
They weren’t replying to my messages or apologies. Not at all.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “I can’t stop myself. So I’m deleting your number. I don’t want to bother you anymore. Take care of yourself,” I wrote.
Was this me playing my last card, or was I truly trying to stop myself?
It didn’t matter.
They didn’t reply.
The next day, they flew back home.
I really did delete their number from everywhere.
But I remembered that if I tapped ‘send photo’ from my gallery, their number might still pop up.
I couldn’t even protect myself from myself.
All I could think was that I needed to reach them.
And now that I had found the number, I could finally call.
I called.
I texted.
No answer.
I had to reach them somehow and convince them.
That was the only thing that felt right to me.
You can’t just delete someone over one mistake.
And besides, they were the one who triggered me by not replying.
How did I turn things against myself like this?How did I turn someone who once said, ‘My stomach turns upside down when I see your message,’ into this? I kept asking myself.
No.
It couldn’t be.
It shouldn’t be.
I had seen it with my own eyes.
Even the slightest touch of mine seemed to give them goosebumps.
They couldn’t just leave me after feeling that strongly about me.
They would forgive me.
My phone rang.
A friend told me their car had been stopped at a police checkpoint.
Since they didn’t have a license, they wanted me to go and drive the car.
My mind was a mess.
I went, thinking at least I’d put the phone down for a while.
Right after leaving my friend, I called them again.
They answered.
I thought I might die from the excitement.
I had been calling and texting all day—no reply.
Yes.
We were so close to fixing everything.
But the person who was usually so sweet and warm was nowhere to be found.
They answered the phone with an ice-cold voice.
“How are you?” I asked, with childlike excitement.
“I’m fine. You keep calling. It’s bothering me. That’s why I picked up. We had something good. I don’t want to block you.”
“What if we just talk? What if I explain myself? I just helped my friend…”
“So?” they cut in sharply, as if to say, what are you even talking about?
“Since you answered, I thought maybe it was a sign…” I was about to continue when they cut me off.
“I just don’t want to hear any of this. I really don’t. And I don’t want to believe anything either. If I have a boundary, this is it.
Look, you said you didn’t want to talk, but you texted. You said you were deleting my number. I knew perfectly well you were going to write again. I was right. You wrote again.
You sit with that—think about why you did this when there was nothing going on.
Thanks for the effort. Okay? If you call again, I’ll block you.”
My voice, my breath… I was lost.
I hadn’t expected such a harsh reaction, such a merciless tone.
Why were they treating me like this?
I couldn’t say anything.
They hung up.
My whole body was on fire.
I had been erased over a single mistake.
I couldn’t stand.
I sat down on the curb.
First, I looked up at the sky, at the darkness, and then at my phone.
“If they block me, they block me,” I said.
And I pressed call.