Find My

I lost my AirPod. Find My told me where it was. It was in her flat.

His name was Callum. Two years, and I'd been "the one," according to every drunk Instagram caption he ever wrote. He kept our matching keyrings on his bag. He remembered my coffee order. He cried at my graduation.

One Saturday, I realised my left AirPod was missing. Typical. I opened the app, tapped "Find," and a little green dot pulsed on the map.

Not in his room. Not in the car. Not in my bag.

An address across the city. A street I'd never been to.

Sat there. Same spot. Same dot.

I knew whose flat it was, because I'd seen the name once on a group chat he forgot to mute. Brielle. His "study buddy."

I looked at that dot for a very long time. I wanted to be wrong. I really did. I wanted it to be a harmless explanation, like he'd lent them to a friend, like she found them on a bus.

I called him. He answered with his normal voice, cheerful, warm.

"Hey, babe!"

"Where's my AirPod?" I asked.

A beat. Then: "What?"

"It's playing music," I said. "Faintly. From Brielle's flat. Can you hear it?"

I'd tapped "Play Sound."

Down the phone, a tiny, bright chime rang.

Right behind him.

I didn't need the app to find what I'd lost.