Dear iPhone 6 I’ve had for five months,
I really, really, miss you.
One freezing Friday morning (literally just the other day), you were in my jacket pocket. I had just finished an overnight shift, so I was drowsy and exhausted. I had an important interview in less than an hour, and in an attempt to get there faster, I decided to take a taxi.
That was mistake number one.
Once my colleague took over from me at work, I rushed downstairs and didn’t bother to put in my headphones. I wanted to keep my head clear, not filled with Nicki Minaj lyrics.
That was mistake number two.
As I ran to the lone orange cab on the curb, I held onto my phone cradled in my pocket, trying desperately to keep it inside. I didn’t want to put it in my jeans pocket because the denim darkens the phone case.
The was mistake number three.
Inside the cab, it was a still and awkward silence. I wasn’t in the mood to talk — I was tired after such a long shift, and I had been working since midnight. The driver didn’t seem all too eager, either.
I paid no attention to my surroundings and attempted to take a small nap. Before I knew it, however, I was at my location. I fumbled for the fare, tipped generously, and ran out of the cab without looking back.
The was mistake number four.
You know how this ends.
Since losing my phone, I’ve had exactly six people ask why I don’t take an Uber, five people wonder why I didn’t have Find My iPhone turned on, and a mere four people console my spiralling self.
My answer to all those questions?
Yeah, I’m really stupid.