The Thought Process of Waiting for a Text

“Hey!”

Nope. That doesn’t say “Hey!” It says “Heyt” because my phone’s a psychopath and I am a reckless sabotager of my own mental peace, but there’s no looking back once the word “delivered” punctuates that stupid, stupid text. Plus we’re two minutes past the sent time stamp and correcting my typo now would look excessive or desperate.

Wait, two minutes? I mean, that’s fine, he has a life.

I’m gonna put my phone away. I’m gonna put my phone away and go about my evening routine which at the moment consists of me brushing my teeth and checking my phone again. Still nothing.

It’s been seven minutes. Totally normal. Seven minutes is only two minutes after five minutes which means that even if takes three more minutes it’s only been ten minutes, and even if that turns into 15 minutes that’s okay because he might be finishing up a call or something.

17 minutes is torture though. At 17 minutes I’m pretty sure I must have said something weird over drinks. Think, think, think…what did I say that could make this person so averse to me that he did a 180 and has suddenly decided not to dignify my perfectly polite albeit misspelled salutation with the minimum, two-lettered “Hi”?

I’m putting my phone down. A watched pot never makes ramen noodles, as they say.

But an unwatched pot is guaranteed to bubble over and explode noodles everywhere. I learned from the book of life, not proverbs, and am therefore checking my phone.

Fine. I’m putting my phone down on the other side of the couch. Screen up, though — just in case. Normally I keep my volume on silent because the sound of a group chat is worse than a tree of egotistical birds at dawn, but I’ll make an exception for the sake of my mounting anxiety–

PING.

My eyes fly right and I catch, out of the corner of my pupil through my peripheral vision, a name that looks very similar in length to his floating across the screen. My heart starts listening to a Nicki Minaj song, that’s how fast it’s thumping. I lean over — it’s gotta be him, right? It’s been almost half an hour. DAD. Ugh. Not now–

PING!

Dad again.

PING!

“Dad stop texting me I am super busy!!!!!!!!”

Back to ignoring my phone. I’m watching all of these blissfully ignorant people on TV laugh and high five about how awesome their allergy medicine is. They are probably all in meaningful relationships with people who TEXT BACK–

Ping!

Peripheral eye check again. It looks like “Dad.” It’s not Dad. It’s him. AHHH. I can’t open it yet.

I run around for 10 minutes and do 100 important things: I brush my hair. I walk to my fridge. I throw a sock at my roommate. Etc.

Ok, I’m gonna open it.

He said, “Hey!”

…What the fuck does that mean?