Do Not Text

She saved me as "Do Not Text" in her phone. I found out when I borrowed her phone to call my own.

Her name was Lena. We were a "thing" for six months. Not official, never defined. She'd show up at midnight, leave by morning, and I'd spend the day pretending I didn't care. It was unfair. I was the one who let it be that way.

Then she cut it off. A clean break. A shrug. "We want different things." I said, "Cool, no hard feelings." I lied.

A few weeks later, we ran into each other at a mutual friend's flat. My phone was dead. I asked to borrow hers to call my taxi. She handed it over without thinking.

I opened her recent calls. Scrolled through. And there, at the top of her contacts, was a name.

"Do Not Text 🚫"

My number. Right underneath it.

I stood there, frozen. My own number, in her phone, with a little red sign.

I handed it back. She saw my face. Saw what I'd seen. Her whole body flinched.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said quietly.

"Like what?"

"Cutting you off. It's not for you." She looked at the floor. "It's for me. I save it so I won't send something at 2 AM."

I wanted to say something kind.

But I just realised.

She didn't block me because she hated me.

She blocked herself because she didn't trust herself to stay away.