It started with a crack.
A tiny one, in the corner of the screen, the kind you barely notice until your thumb catches it mid-scroll. I remember staring at it and whispering, “No... not you.” Because this phone — my loyal, outdated, battery-hungry companion — had been with me for seven long years.
Seven years.
That’s three jobs, countless bad selfies, one incredibly regrettable haircut, and enough memes to crash a NASA server. My phone saw it all. It was my diary, my therapist, my alarm clock, my camera, my YouTube binge partner at 2 AM.
But time had taken its toll.
It had stopped charging properly unless I held the cable at a 45-degree angle while humming the national anthem. The power button worked only when it wanted to — which was never. Autocorrect became senile, randomly replacing words with ones it had no business using. (“Don’t forget to duck the chicken!” what the hell was that..duck the chicken??? remains unexplained.) Apps crashed like toddlers on sugar highs, and don’t even get me started on the camera. Every picture came out with that soft, blurry “ghost aesthetic” — which would be charming if I were a ghost hunter. I am not.
Still, I couldn’t let go.
This phone was mine. It knew me. It had the scratch from when my best friend dropped it. The sticker residue from that phase I thought I liked cats (I don’t). The tiny dents from when I “accidentally” launched it at the couch. It was, in every way, a part of me.
Until the day it refused to turn on.
I panicked. Shook it like a maraca. Whispered sweet nothings to it. Plugged it in. Unplugged it. Plugged it in again. Nothing. Just darkness and despair.
I took it to the repair shop.
The technician — a pimply teen who looked like he still believed in Santa — gave me a once-over and said, “Dude, this phone is ancient. We don’t even carry parts for this anymore.”
Ancient? Did he just call my phone ancient?
It was like someone calling your dog ugly. You know they’re not wrong, but you’re still ready to fight.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He shook his head and muttered something about “retirement homes for electronics.” I didn’t hear the rest. My heart was already breaking.
That night, I sat in silence, holding my dead phone like Simba holds Mufasa.
I remembered our first day together. The excitement. The smell of new tech. The crispness of the screen. How I swore I’d never drop it. (That vow lasted about 48 hours.)
I mourned.
And then, like any emotionally stable adult, I went online and added seventeen phones to my cart before deleting all of them and crying into my cereal.
And so began the mourning.
I spent the next few days avoiding the inevitable. I borrowed a spare phone, but it felt all wrong. The buttons were in weird places. The keyboard made the wrong clicking sound. It didn’t know me.
But life moves forward, and WhatsApp doesn’t wait. So I finally gathered the courage to shop for a new phone.
---
The Shop: The Beginning of the End
Walking into the electronics store felt like walking into a matchmaking event where none of the candidates knew how much I missed my ex.
The sales guy greeted me with a practiced smile. “Looking for a phone?”
I nodded.
He led me to the newest models. Sleek, shiny, impossibly smart.
I listened to him list features I didn’t care about—I picked one—mid-range, dependable-looking, not too flashy. It felt like a rebound relationship. Not love, but something I could maybe grow into.
At the counter, he asked, “Would you like to recycle your old one?”
I gripped my phone like it had a heartbeat. “No.”
---
New Beginnings (With a Hint of Guilt)
My new phone powered on in seconds. Everything looked crisp. Modern. Functional.
The keyboard was too big. It vibrated weirdly. It autocorrected my sarcasm.
But it worked. Beautifully.
Slowly, I adjusted. I downloaded my apps, set up my wallpaper, synced my contacts. My thumbs learned new rhythms. The camera was so sharp I started avoiding selfies.
Still, my old phone stayed in the drawer—tucked under a stack of receipts and tangled headphones. Every now and then, I pull it out and smile.
It doesn’t turn on. It never will. But it still holds my history—my first job, my breakup, my best nights out, and the songs I played on loop when I couldn’t sleep.
You don’t throw that kind of loyalty away. Even if it lagged, overheated, and died every three hours.
So here’s to the phone that stayed with me for 7 years.
You were more than a device. You were a tiny, witness to my life.I loved you....
And though I’ve moved on... you’ll always be the one I couldn’t let go of..
