I realized I was no longer reachable as a person the moment I lost my phone.
Not lost in the usual sense.
Without it, I couldn’t remember anyone’s address.
I got off the bus and turned back.
The blue bus was already going down the slope,
reflected light flickering across its windows,
then disappearing around the corner.
The bus stop was empty. Just me.
A low sound from an air conditioner behind a house continued without pause.
I’d never been here before. He had invited me months ago.
The suburb had been cut into the hillside. Rows of houses stretched across the hillside.
Same color walls.
Same narrow driveways.
Same height of shrubs.
Only the names on the mailboxes were different.
A wind passed through.
Somewhere, a shutter closed.
I started walking toward a friend’s house.
But the route was unclear.
Third right.
Left at the park.
White house.
That was all I remembered.
I walked.
Turned a corner.
The same houses again.
White walls.
Black cars.
Artificial grass.
Delivery boxes.
Small trees.
A man in a garden held a hose.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He looked at me.
I told him my friend’s name.
“Do you know them?”
He thought for a moment.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Water ran across the ground.
“Are they new here?”
“I’m not sure.”
I left.
Walked again.
Same corners.
Same stairs.
Even the position of the mailboxes felt identical.
A woman walking a dog didn’t know.
A woman on a bicycle with a child shook her head.
“Everyone moved in around the same time here,” she said, and left.
Evening came.
Streetlights turned on one by one.
Windows began to light up.
Shadows moved behind curtains.
Dinner smells.
Television noise.
Laughter.
Life, aligned in rows.
A park appeared.
It felt familiar.
Slide.
Yellow fence.
Vending machine.
Bus stop.
The place I got off.
I had circled back.
I sat on a bench.
Called the bus company.
A public phone.
I inserted coins.
“I think I left my phone on the bus.”
They asked for the vehicle number.
I didn’t know.
The time.
I gave it.
Waited.
“We checked. Nothing was found.”
“Ah,” I said.
There was another call ringing in the background.
“Sir, if it is found we’ll — ”
I realized I didn’t even have a number they could reach me at.
Silence.
“Hello?”
“It’s fine,” I said, and hung up.
Coins returned.
I put them in my pocket.
There was nothing left to do.
I stood up.
Walked along the edge of the suburb.
Guardrails.
Empty construction land.
Blue tarps.
Exposed hillside.
A supermarket sign in the distance.
Water moving through drainage channels.
While walking, I tried to remember my friend’s face.
I hadn’t seen him since his wedding.
Even his child’s name was unclear.
The address was inside my phone messages.
The number, I never knew.
All shared friends existed only on screens.
A faint rectangle of light flickered beneath the water.
It was my phone.
Half-submerged in muddy water.
Only the screen was still lit.
I picked it up.
Cracked glass.
Notifications lined up.
“Where are you?”
“Did you arrive?”
“It’s cold, go inside first.”
“Bus stop?”
I tapped.
The screen stayed frozen.
In the suburb, I was slightly out of alignment with everything else.