The Flip Phone and the Incoming Call
I FOUND HIS OLD FLIP PHONE UNDER THE BED, AND THEN THE CALL CAME.
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the small, black device I found tucked under the mattress. It was an old flip phone, the kind with physical buttons, hidden deep, not his usual smartphone.
My stomach churned with a metallic taste as I awkwardly thumbed it open, praying it was nothing, just a forgotten relic. Then I saw the contact list – only one name, ‘Misty,’ repeated over and over, and the dated photos, intimate and sickening.
He walked in then, whistling a cheerful tune, and saw the phone in my trembling hand, his face instantly draining of all color. ‘What is that, Mark? Who is Misty?’ I choked out, the words tasting like ash in my dry mouth, my voice barely a whisper.
He lunged, trying to snatch it, but I recoiled, my eyes fixed on the screen, showing the last message received. It was a simple text, ‘See you tonight xoxo,’ sent less than an hour after he kissed me goodbye this very morning.
Just then, the phone buzzed loudly in my hand again, showing an incoming call from “Misty.”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The world seemed to shrink, focusing on the vibrating phone. He stood frozen, his face a mask of guilt and desperation. “Please, let me explain,” he stammered, his voice cracking.
I couldn’t speak. The betrayal clawed at my throat, stealing the air from my lungs. I stared at the glowing screen, watching the name ‘Misty’ taunt me. The ringing cut through the silence, a mocking fanfare to my shattered world.
Finally, I pressed the answer button, my finger trembling. “Hello?” I managed, my voice a shaky thread.
A woman’s voice, sweet and light, answered, “Hey, babe! You almost ready? Can’t wait to see you.”
My eyes flicked back to Mark, watching his reaction. He looked like he was about to faint.
“Who is this?” I asked, my voice hardening, forcing strength I didn’t feel.
A slight pause, then, “Oh, it’s me, Misty. Who are you?” The sweetness was tinged with a hint of suspicion.
“I’m…I’m with Mark,” I said, the words feeling like a betrayal of my own.
There was a longer silence this time. I could hear the subtle clicks and rustles of a phone being lowered from an ear. Then, Misty’s voice again, now brittle, “Mark? What’s going on?”
I glanced at Mark. He was a crumpled mess, his head in his hands. He whispered, “Tell her… tell her I’m sorry.”
“He’s here,” I said into the phone, my voice steady now, fueled by a cold, bitter rage. “And he’s going to tell you the truth.”
I held the phone out to Mark, who reluctantly took it. He stammered apologies, explanations, a torrent of words I couldn’t make out. He was a shadow of the man I thought I knew.
I turned and walked out of the room, leaving him to his confessions, the phone buzzing and ringing a final, condemning chorus. The house felt different, the air thick with lies and broken promises. I didn’t know where I was going, or what I would do, but the weight on my chest, the metallic taste, was finally, slowly, starting to dissipate. The pain was still there, but mixed with a strange, nascent feeling of freedom. I was free of him, free of the lies, free to build a new life, a life that wouldn’t have Misty, and wouldn’t have him. The phone, I realised, was the catalyst for it all. And, in a strange way, I was almost grateful.