Scheduled

He texted me happy birthday at midnight. It was the nicest thing he'd done in months.

We broke up in January. My birthday was in March. I told myself I wouldn't check my phone at 12:00, then checked it at 11:58 like an idiot, sitting in my dark room, pretending to be casual.

12:00 AM. A message.

"Happy 22nd my love. I'm so lucky it's you. Can't wait to spoil you today."

My whole body went still. I read it three times. My hands were literally shaking. I was already drafting replies. "That's so sweet." "I miss you." "Okay, I forgive everything."

Then, two minutes later, another message.

"oh shit. that was scheduled. sorry."

Scheduled.

He'd written it back in the winter, when we were still a "we." When he still used words like "lucky" and "my love." He'd set it up weeks ahead, because he's that kind of boyfriend. The kind who plans. The kind who remembers.

He just forgot to delete it when he stopped loving me.

I sat there in the dark, birthday glitter still in my hair from a friend's pre-party, holding my phone like it was a letter from a dead person.

He apologized again. "I'm sorry, I forgot it was still in there."

I typed, "No worries, lol," and put the phone face down.

He said sorry for the message.

Not for the love. Not for the leaving.

Just the delivery time.