By Hannah Sothcott
Over in my bottom drawer lies my phone. In other words, there lies my inbox in a box, because all it did was box me in. Emails like any other emails, an inbox like any other inbox when first perceived. Tarot horoscopes for when I happen to doubt myself, endless pleas from Change.org with their unsubscribe button so indiscernible that you can blink and miss it.
But very rarely did I open them, though their fresh bold fonts seek to ensnare my attention. Instead, I did the odd thing of typing your name in the futile search search box in the top left hand corner, which takes me with undisclosed rapidity to all of our messages from a year ago. I clicked on one, only because they gave me the only closeness I would ever have to you again. I sometimes wished your name would wear down on my screen to remind me to just stop looking.
Once I got on to a message, my mouse hovered hesitatingly over the link to your profile and I don’t know why I click, because it’s just your sodding profile, and you’re a world away, so how come I can’t breathe? The box I am in draws it’s four walls into me, boxed in by my inbox because delete only means moving your name to another folder. So I boxed in my inbox by putting you and all these meaningless messsges in a drawer. I let go of it all. Horoscopes, Change.org, and your name.
A week later you came to my door and my inbox needn’t box me in anymore.
Image: Warner Bros; Giphy