Breakdown

What harm can a cellphone do? Lilika discovers that when your boyfriend is an insufferably insensitive brat, a cellphone might be the cause your greatest sorrow – along with him.

Ten minutes.

She stared at her cellphone indignantly, feeling the urge to pick it up and remind him that she was still up, fighting the drowsiness that was threatening to take over her system and put her to sleep, and waiting for his reply. But she decided to put that thought aside, sighing instead.

Men. Such insensitive brats.

And it happened every time. Too busy to talk to each other during the day, their conversations took refuge in the darkness of night – past the reasonable hours, even. It was a bit of trouble for her, and very much an extra effort, but since he wished it so, she compelled with the silent rules. Even when she had to get up early the next day for her classes at the university, even when she had an exam for the first period.

Much to her annoyance and ire, however, he would fall asleep halfway through their talk almost every day. What upset her wasn't really the fact that he kept sleeping on her; rather, it was that she'd be up waiting for him to reply, only to realize thirty minutes or an hour later that he had fallen asleep again and wasn't going to text back until the morning. And when he would, he'd greet her a good morning, ask if she dreamed about him, laugh about how lying down drove him to sleep, and not at all continue the conversation he had left unfinished.

Beep.

One message received.

About time, she thought, almost exasperatedly. She rolled over to her side to take her phone, fumbling through the keypad to read his message. And, immediately, frowned.

Wt u doin? M surfn d net.

Her patience evaporated into thin air. He was being the insufferably insensitive brat again, and it was getting on her nerves. She had waited because she expected a sensible conversation, but it seemed that he was too busy somewhere else. She threw a glance at her alarm clock, her frown deepening. It was past midnight.

She had waited enough.

Fingers flying from one key to another, she typed, Luks lyk ur bc. Ok, I wnt bothr u. Tc.

His reply came shortly after, and she felt her temper rise.

Ok, f dats wt u wnt.

Still, she was the girl that she was, and even in the middle of her temper tantrum, she was still the warm, sweet girl who was loved by everyone at the Tobita Club, the girl who could never really hate or get mad at a person, regardless of what she was feeling. Remembering that he had gone out that night and was, she concluded, doing his surfing at some 'Net café, she bid him good night and told him to take care on his way back home.

And his reply was only the two-lettered ok. He didn't even bother to put a period.

She burst into tears. Why was he being so mean to her? Why was he being so insensitive? All she wanted was to talk to him. Yet he didn't seem to be in the mood to. Well, she could take that, she really could, but why couldn't he just tell her directly that he didn't want to talk, instead of pushing her aside and making her feel miserable?

It was then and there when it dawned on her that he didn't need her, that she really didn't mean that much to him. After all, he had the money and the means to throw around, to get himself anything that he could possibly want, while she was just a girl he could very easily replace. He had been fine without her, he had been happy without her, and she had seen that he could live and be happy without her.

What, then, was the point of staying?

Ring.

One missed call.

A text followed.

M on my way hme. U stl up? Wt u doin?

She told him she was crying. He said that he was sorry, but she noticed that, again, he didn't even put a period, and he did that every time he was mad, or upset, or simply not in the mood. She told him that he didn't need to say sorry, because he didn't do anything wrong and everything was her fault, not his. That she was a stupid helpless girl. That she was a failure, a screw-up. That he'd be better off without her.

He argued that it wasn't so, that she shouldn't think of herself that way. But she couldn't help it; her realization had struck her deep, and it wounded her. She probably would've been able to take the pain far better if he had told her in the face that he didn't need her, but to have to feel it from his words, from his actions – the blow was twice as much.

And it was bound to get worse.

He said, Y r u teling me dis? Ur tired of me, arnt u? Go ahed, jst say it. And shortly after, before she could even materialize a reply in her head, another text came, asking her why she was doing this to him.

She couldn't take it anymore. She felt like she was going to explode. She had to talk to him, to speak to him, for lifeless text messages could not carry her point across, could not ascertain how he was feeling or if he meant what he had been saying, nor could they settle the problem that had brewed so quickly between the couple. Hastily, not caring how late it already was, she dialed his number, and the moment he answered the call, fresh tears streaming out of her eyes and down her face, she wailed, "Doing what! What did I do!"

"You're crying again."

It took her a moment before she could speak again. She knew that he hated it when she'd cry. "How can you," she began, stifling her sobs, "how can you say that I'm tired of you? Is that how you see me? Is that it?"

"Hush now. Stop crying. You're just sleepy. Go to bed now, get some rest. Please."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Okay, fine! I stay up this late to talk to you, and you just tell me to go to bed because I'm sleepy! That's it, isn't it? When you're having fun, you just forget about me!"

Now that stung him.

"I see. Very well."

He ended the call.

-x-

She put away her cellphone, turned off her lampshade and went to bed, hoping that the pain would go away; and that when the morning would come, he'd greet her a good morning, ask if she dreamed about him, laugh about how lying down drove him to sleep, and not at all continue the conversation he had left unfinished. She pulled the cozy sheets over her, holding her pillow close, and cried.

And outside, a lonely figure gazed upon her bedroom window, tears glistening within his eyes.