Numbers and Numbers

Looking through name after name after name I start to get the sense that that's all these are. Names. Numbers and numbers. Not friends, not even acquaintances. But I'm holding onto them for some reason. Holding onto them for a reason like tonight, when I have to make myself scarce. They were supposed to come in handy, solve a problem, not create another. But perhaps I'm overthinking things.

I stop on one, and then another, another. I've reached out but hit nothing but silence and recorded messages. I've been doing this a good few hours now, and it's beginning to become depressing. Not in a deep and true and sad kind of way. But in a concerning way all the same.

And what if I were to call the wrong name? Making someone uncomfortable, getting laughter in return. What then? I wonder if I would delete the number then. I wonder if I would even hang up. Or if I would stay, hanging, hoping and convincing that, yes, in fact we are that good of friends. And what about my comfort? Doesn't that matter? Couldn't they be a bit more considerate?

When the time comes, and you're talking to yourself about a hypothetical situation, and it's getting you upset, and none of this really matters, that's when you head out on your own. Making new friends, finding a place where you can talk. Making your way slowly, slowly back home.