There’s a contact in my phone labeled “Don’t Answer.”
Every time I see that name, a strange guilt creeps in—like not picking up is my fault.
That person is Mark, an old friend from college. We’ve known each other for nearly ten years. But every time we talk, afterward I need fifteen minutes alone to recover. He turns every small thing in his life into a disaster, waits for me to say “it’ll be okay,” and then says “you don’t get it.” Three cycles, and forty minutes are gone. I hang up feeling like a wrung-out rag.
Last month, he called while I was driving home from work. His boss was out to get him again. His girlfriend didn’t understand him. The world was unfair to him. I put him on speaker while stuck on I-5, as the sky darkened and brake lights glowed red all around me.
I said, “Mark, have you ever thought about looking at it differently?”
He paused for two seconds. Then: “Can’t you just listen?”
Something gave way inside me. It was that kind of tired that seeps out from deep in my bones.
I didn’t text him back that night — or the next night. The guilt came rushing in like a tide, but I stood still in the middle of it and asked myself: You’ve been running for ten years. How much longer?
I changed the contact name to “Myself.”
I couldn’t bring myself to block him. But I could pull back.
He texted later: “Why aren’t you answering?” I thought for a long time, then typed: “I’m learning to protect my energy.”
He never replied. And I stopped waiting.
And after a while, I realized I wasn’t checking my phone anymore.
