The Number I Didn't Dial

I saw her name in a group text

this morning—

the kind of message that gets passed around,

the kind where someone's engaged

and everyone else is supposed to be

thrilled about it, supposed to respond

with emojis and exclamation points.

I didn't.

I have her number still.

It's still in my phone,

old text chain from maybe three years ago

when we actually talked,

when she still called me back,

when I still pretended

we had something that mattered.

I almost opened it.

My thumb hovered over her name

for maybe thirty seconds,

and I thought about writing something—

what do you say to someone

you've been avoiding

in the most deliberate way?

Congratulations?

I'm sorry?

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry?

The message disappeared before I sent it.

The conversation stayed closed.

My friend—and I can still call her that

even though I'm not sure I can anymore—

is getting married

and I wasn't invited.

That's what that text meant.

That's what the absence says.

I could call. Could close the distance

I spent so long creating.

But the number stays in my phone

like a scar,

like evidence of something

I didn't want to remember,

like a witness to my own smallness.

I deleted the group text

instead.