Unknown Number

An unknown number texted me. "Hey, is this still your number?" I replied, "Sorry, who's this?" And meant it.

It came in at 2:08 AM. A string of digits with no name. No photo. Just a plain grey bubble. My stomach flipped out of habit, a leftover reflex from the months when every unknown number was maybe him.

I replied calmly. "Sorry, who's this?"

Typing bubble. Then: "It's Noah."

I read it twice. Noah. My Noah. The one who ended things on a Sunday. The one I'd waited for through four seasons and three phone cases. The one who'd lived in my chest like a second, unwanted heartbeat.

I didn't have his number saved. I'd deleted it in the spring, in a burst of rage, and replaced it with a blank. So for a second, I truly didn't know.

I looked at the number again. Then something strange happened.

I realised I used to know it by heart. Every digit. I could've typed it in my sleep. I used to, I think. Half asleep, hopeful, trembling.

But sitting there in the dark, staring at the screen, I couldn't remember it.

Not the first six digits. Not the last four. Nothing.

I held the phone for a minute, waiting for the old ache.

It didn't come.

I typed, "Hi, Noah."

And for the first time in a year, my heart stayed exactly where it was.

I'd finally forgotten the number I once dialled in my sleep.