The screen flashes and I absentmindedly touch the message icon,
assuming it’s a message I want to receive.
An old familiar face, but the message is signed not from him, but from her.
The first is mature, civil, almost nice.
I read it once, twice.
My pulse sky-rockets and I numbly place the book I’m reading down,
I feel my breathing getting caught in my throat as I fanatically skim,
skim the words again and again, until
they blur together and my mind struggles to grasp meaning through the waves of panic.
I screenshot, then delete the message. I need to think, need to breath.
Apparently, I am not allowed such luxury, though,
because a second message comes.
This one begins with an insult, and that is all I read.
Fear mingled with anxiety, mingled with anger roars through my blood stream.
With clenched jaw and bated breath, I delete the message, unread.
Why read more? There can’t be good news at the end of the message.
No “Just kidding! Haha. Wrong person!”
I go to the profile.
I’ve never blocked anyone before, but luckily it’s there, written in red.
BLOCK.
I block the profile and the number and delete, delete, delete.
My phone screen lights up again, and I feel the sucker-punch sensation creep back in,
But it’s just a friend. A normal, lovely, non-threatening friend.
I don’t trust my phone anymore, though, I’d rather it not light up at all.
I clutch my phone in a white knuckled hand,
hoping this is the end.