The Playlist

I deleted her number. But my Spotify is still her playlist.

We were together for two years. Long enough that her taste became my taste. She made me a playlist called "for when I'm not there." I thought it was cute. I didn't know it was a warning.

She was long distance, Manchester to London. Every FaceTime ended with her falling asleep on screen, and I'd stay on the call, watching her breathe, too scared to hang up.

Then I got busy. New job, new city, new everything. I started saying "I'll call you tomorrow." Tomorrow turned into next week. She never complained. That should've scared me more than anything.

One Sunday she texted: "I'm not mad. I'm just tired of being someone's maybe."

I didn't reply. I thought if I gave her a day, she'd cool off and we'd fix it. I was so sure we had time.

Her last seen said Tuesday. Then nothing. She blocked me everywhere.

So I deleted her contact like a tough guy. Cleared our photos. Felt nothing for exactly four hours.

Tonight, on the Tube home, my AirPods shuffled. Her playlist. First song was the one she sang off-key on our first FaceTime.

I sat there, in a packed carriage, trying not to cry in front of strangers.

I wasn't too busy for her. I just thought she'd always be there to wait.

She named it "for when I'm not there." And she's really not.