delete (another cringe short story)

Delete
I press the button again and again; the devilish red color of it matches my mood and I
wish that I could punch the wall. But that would only prove that I’m aggressive, and that’s
exactly what everyone thinks I am. I’m not.
Delete
Delete
Delete
Press after press, and her messages depart one by one. Gabriel and the others will only
laugh if I told them I’m deleting her messages and not her contact as a whole. No, that’s too late
of a time. They’ll laugh when I break the news that she’s left. They’ll tell me that instead of being
the attractive end of a magnet like my narcissistic self thinks I am, my vision has been upside-
down this entire time and I am really the repulsive one. They’ll laugh until their brains burst,
which if I’m being honest wouldn’t be possible, since I don’t think they’ve got any.
What supportive friends I have.
Delete
Delete
Delete
I go through this process for hours on end. An outsider might think it’s monotonous, but
it’s not. Every message I delete, I read. I try not to, but I can’t. And every message I read, it’s
like a stab to my heart, which was a diamond masterpiece until she smashed it with her
goddamn hammer.
She’ll probably block me by the end of today, so I should probably just delete her
contact, but it’s not the same. If I don’t delete her contact, she’ll still be here, in my phone. Only
with no messages. Just an empty space of what I imagine the insides of the girl I loved to be.
Three hours later, I reach the top. There are only three left. One—the very first one of
our conversations—from her; and two, from me (I usually don’t text girls unless they text me
first. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why):
Savannah: Hey, Zachary!! fairy emoji
Me: anna the savvy!!!!!!
Me: you looked nice today :)
The corners of my lips drag down until they’re almost collinear with my jawline.
Delete

My sister says that I have no fashion sense. I think she’s only saying this to get on my
nerves. I have decent fashion sense, and by that I mean I dress nicely and my shirts are ironed.
Only all my shirts are the same, because I’ve only got one. At least, I only wear one. It’s pewter-
gray, the color of Savannah’s eyes, and has the red felt letters “CW”—for Cherrywood, the
private high school I’m attending—embroidered over the heart. Savannah will be going to
Cherrywood too. All of my friends are, except for Gabe. I’ll miss him.
My crew is called the Cherrywood Chips. And I don’t know exactly what the name
means, but from some vibes I’d gotten when a girl in my History class said it, it’s not exactly a
name to be proud of. My best guess is that “Cherrywood” is the equivalent of “rich kids” and
“Chip”—maybe this is taking it too far, but—I think it’s from the phrase “chip on one’s shoulder”.