Waiting for the Read

I wrote you a message

that took forty-five minutes—

starting, stopping, deleting,

rearranging the words

like they were furniture

I could move around

until they looked less desperate,

less real,

less like proof

that I've been thinking about you

longer than is normal.

I sent it at 11:47 PM.

Because I'm the kind of person

who makes choices

that don't make sense,

who texts in the dark

like the darkness makes it safer,

like you won't see the words as clearly

if they arrive at night.

You read it.

I watched the notification come through,

watched the "read" status

appear beneath my words

like a stamp,

like a seal,

like proof

that you saw what I said

and chose

not to respond.

For three days I checked.

Not constantly. Just every hour.

Just every time my phone was in my hand.

Just every time I woke up,

like your response might have come

while I was sleeping,

like you might have changed your mind

in the dark.

The three dots never appeared.

You didn't type and delete.

You didn't start something

you weren't going to finish.

You just read it

and left me there,

sitting in the read receipt,

proof

that you saw

and decided that silence

was the answer.

That's the worst part.

Not rejection—rejection would be words.

This is just nothing.

This is you reading about how much

I think about you

and deciding that nothing

was the kindest thing,

the only thing

I deserved.

I deleted the thread.

Then I undeleted it.

Then I muted the conversation

so I wouldn't see your name

if you ever decided to text me

about something small,

something safe,

something that wouldn't require

you to acknowledge

that I exist.

I'm still checking.

I don't know why.

Still waiting for the read receipt

to become typing,

to become proof

that I matter enough

to warrant more than

this.