sol.ace_r

There is a phone number.
A number left in my contacts, with no name—only digits.
I can’t quite remember anymore why it’s saved this way.

I used to have these numbers memorized.
So well that my hands would move before I thought.
Sometimes I still tap the screen more carefully, afraid I might dial it by mistake.

I’ve forgotten most of what we said on this line.
Whether we laughed, argued, or talked for a long time isn’t clear anymore.
I only remember that I called it often.

If I called now, it might connect—or it might not.
That doesn’t really matter.
I already know I won’t call.

I could delete it, but that doesn’t come easily.
Not because keeping it means something, and not because I lack the courage to clean things up.
It just doesn’t feel like the time.

Numbers always wear the same expression.
They don’t wait, and they don’t feel hurt.
That’s why they’re even harder to erase.

Today, while scrolling through my contacts, I paused for a moment.
Then I turned off the screen and went on with something else, as if nothing had happened.

Today again, between the choice not to call and the choice not to delete, I simply leave this number as it is.