Someone Should Have Taken My Phone Away

We met at a Halloween party.

I was Wonder Woman.

Not the sleek cinematic version.

The Halloween-store polyester version.

The boobs were exactly where they needed to be.

The “boots” weren’t even boots.

They were those weird boot covers that slide over your shoes, itch like fiberglass, and slowly fall down your calves all night while you pretend everything is fine.

He was a pimp.

Cane.
Gold teeth.
A massive purple cheetah-print faux-fur coat he was absolutely sweating to death inside.

We were both overheating in synthetic fabrics and questionable life choices.

Somewhere between the second energy drink and the bad potluck appetizers quietly dying on a folding table nearby, we realized:

Oh.

I think we like each other.

Nothing dramatic happened that night.

But a few days later…

the texting began.

And once it began, it really began.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“I really like you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Dinner splurges.

Our first kiss at the docks.

Seals barking in the background like judgmental spectators.

My red lipstick migrating onto his entire face while we made out like teenagers.

And then I did what I do.

I love bombed.

Multiple hearts per day.

Love songs.

Affection grenades.

“Good morning ❤️❤️”

“Have a wonderful day 😘😘”

“Miss you 💋”

I have since learned this about myself:

I am a love bomber.

I want to be love bombed.

I will bomb you.

Let’s just explode together and call it romance.

Except… a couple months in something started to feel off.

We didn’t actually have that much in common.

And underneath it all things felt a little shaky.

But the texting?

The texting was thriving.

He loved the texting.

So much so that I started getting performance reviews.

“You’re not texting as much as you used to.”

“I really like it when you text me.”

“You used to check in more.”

Sir.

The love bombing era was a limited-run series.

You got Season 1.

We are now in normal programming.

But instead of doing the adult thing —
having a conversation —

I thought:

There has got to be an app for this.

And there was.

A scheduling app.

Automated girlfriend.

“I hope you’re having a great day ❤️”

“Thinking of you ❤️❤️”

“Miss you 💋”

Pre-written.

Pre-scheduled.

Pre-kiss-emoji-ed.

And for five glorious days, it worked beautifully.

Until the flaw revealed itself.

Because the texts were going out…

and he was replying to them…

and I didn’t even know they had been sent…

which meant I was now responding to conversations
I had accidentally started.

This was not efficiency.

This was chaos.

Then one night we’re driving home from dinner.

My phone is in my purse in the back seat.

I’m driving.

He’s in the passenger seat.

His phone dings.

He looks at it.

“This is weird,” he says.
“I just got a text from you.”

My soul leaves my body.

“Oh,” I say calmly.
“That’s weird. Must be a delay.”

Sir.

There is no delay.

There is only deceit.

But I doubled down.

“Technology,” I said vaguely.

“So glitchy.”

Change subject.

Divert. Distract. Survive.

The next morning I panic-deleted every scheduled message.

Or so I thought.

Because of course.

Of course I missed one.

Days later.

Same scenario.

Phone away.

His phone dings.

Another message from me.

This time there is no technological scapegoat.

So, I confess.

“I downloaded an app to send you texts,” I say.

“I couldn’t keep up with the texting requirements of this relationship.”

Which, when you say it out loud, sounds insane.

Because it is.

He was hurt.

I was embarrassed.

We tried to move past it.

A couple weeks later, the relationship ended.

In person.

Which, considering how much of the relationship had taken place over text, felt almost formal.

I deleted the scheduling app shortly after.

Ending my brief and deeply questionable career as an automated girlfriend.

And then — months later, maybe a year — Apple rolled out an update.

You can now schedule texts right inside the phone.

No app required.

And I remember seeing that update thinking:

Where was this when I needed it?

Now, to be fair, I do use the “send later” feature.

For very responsible things.

Scheduling reminders.

Questions I want to ask my sister… but it’s too early to text her.

The occasional thought that arrives at 10:47pm but really belongs in tomorrow morning’s conversation.

But the truth is… it wasn’t the texts.

It was me.

A fully grown adult woman

who started something at a volume she couldn’t sustain

and instead of admitting that…

tried to automate affection.

He wanted consistency.

I wanted intensity followed by normal human behavior.

Two very different dialects of love.

And no amount of scheduled hearts

was ever going to translate that.

Because at the end of the day, the real lesson here is simple:

Someone probably should have taken my phone away.