Relationships Are Like Phones

Sophia Zhang

When I was in 6th grade, I got my frst phone. It was a small thing, but the perfect size for me. It ft in the small palms of my hands and the small pockets of my jeans. It was an older brand, but I loved it more for that because it made it modest and humble. In short, it was perfect. I had it for three years. In 8th grade, my phone started smoking up while charging, and my parents immediately disposed of it. My perfect phone had broken, and I hadn’t even realized. The next day, they got me a new phone—this time, of the newest model. I hated it. It was too big for my hands, it couldn’t ft in my pockets, and it was too fashy, like it had something important to say. Worst of all, it was fashy and arrogant. I hated it. I wanted my old phone back, though, I knew I was being ridiculous. The new phone was faster, better, and had more to give. In almost every way possible, it was an upgrade from my old, broken phone. But I didn’t want it. I didn’t want the new phone because it wasn’t my old phone. It wasn’t the phone I had spent three years of my life with.

And really, that seemed to make all the diference. Because somehow, in those three years, I had formed a bond with my old phone, so much so that it made an imprint on my heart I couldn’t erase with a simple replacement—no matter how much faster or bigger or better it was. In an almost foolish way, I couldn’t let go. And I began to realize that I had treated my phone like a person,

and formed a relationship with it that I couldn’t forsaken, no matter how much better the “replacement” is. I realized my phone is like my friendships. I meet someone new, and through time and efort and patience, they become my most reliable person, the one I always go to, the one that sticks with me through the thick and thin of life. And then, slowly, silently, things start to change. The sand slips through my fngers until suddenly, they’re no longer my most reliable person, they’re no longer the one I always go to, and they get further and further away until I realize holding on would hurt more than letting go. And initially, because of the time spent together on the lazy days or the sad days, because of the hidden moments and the loud moments and happy moments and the moments I can’t ever forget, because it’s them —I can’t bring myself to give it up. But I do, because I have to. Because it would hurt more to ask them to come back than to leave things the way they are and ruin those same moments that made me want to stay. I still use the same phone from 8th grade. I eventually learned to appreciate my new phone in the same ways, in the same way I grew to appreciate new people, and let them be my support just like I had with others before them.

It has served me well for the past three years. A few weeks ago though, my phone started acting up. Not like my old phone had, but similar in that I hadn’t realized it was getting old until it was too late. I talked with my dad. We tried our best, but we couldn’t fx it, and my dad warned me, “You might be due for a replacement.” I didn’t want to, because once again, the last three years had meant something to me, and it was melancholic to have to say goodbye. But this time, I dutifully nodded, because just like my old phone had, this phone was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

Like a pattern repeating over and over again, things will change that are too far from my reach to prevent, and though initially I may be sad, I know it’s ok to let go. Sometimes, it’s for the best.