He’s listening, but he’s not listening. He’s looking through me, not at me. His silver name tag says “Scott, Cellular Expert,” but his unironed uniform gives him away. A polo shirt dyed the royal purple synonymous with CellUStar’s branding sits too tight on his frame. His fabric looks as uncomfortable as I feel. He strokes his well-manicured beard, his ratty eyes scanning the floor, searching for words. The silence irritates my patience like a cheap shirt tag against dry skin. I was itching for a reason to deck him right in the middle of the store. “So,” he says, eyes trained on Cat. “You get a phone call every day at 2:31 PM, and the caller ID has a different number every time?” “Incorrect,” I say, sighing loud enough to get the attention of several customers nearby, “As I’ve stated repeatedly, they’re glyphs, not numbers.” “Calm down,” whispered Cat. It’s just like her to try and placate me in public. Why can’t she take my side for once? I can feel her shifting her weight next to me. She’s embarrassed. Like always. “So,” the cellular “expert” says again. “So” seems to be his favorite word. “I don’t think U-Phones have, um, glyphs in their character library. Are you sure they weren’t just numbers? I mean, no offense but, your eyes seem–” I ball my fist. Cat grips my wrist and holds it tight. “I’ve seen them,” Cat says, her voice now harsh yet trepid. “They look like those.” She gestures with her chin to the markings on my face. The cellular “expert” follows her gaze. Once his eyes land on my face, they dart back over to Cat. He nods, fresh out of stupid things to say. Cat’s eyes drift. I follow where they land. She’s watching a couple looking at display phones — Jupiter 105 models, inferior to U-Phones if you ask me. They’re taking selfies. I see Cat desires that kind of odd scenario for us. Maybe it’s the spontaneity. Maybe it’s the non-freakish-looking man. Maybe it’s the happiness they share. “So,” says our resident erudite from behind the counter. “Have you subscribed to SpamStop Premium? It will stop 99% of spam.” “That’s what Heather recommended, remember, Tim?” said Cat. Cashco box wine Heather? Obsessed with reality TV Heather? Publicly loud and intrusive questions about my physical differences, Heather? She has asked me about my “strange tattoos” and my “wonky eye” twelve times since we first met— each time with a glass of red wine in hand. I tell her every time I don’t know what happened to me. She always responds with an eye roll. “I don’t think Heather’s advice applies here,” I say in a faux-pleasant tone. “I’ve read U-Phone X-Rs had an issue that caused them to receive random calls unintended for the user.” “So,” Scott says again, God, his voice is worse than his silence. “That was corrected. Have you updated your device, ma’am?” He answers me by answering Cat. No jury would find me guilty if I just clocked him right now. I hand him the cell phone. “It’s 2:26. Just enough time for you to ask a few more stupid questions before the call comes,” I say. “Tim,” Cat says, shushing me. I ignore her. The “expert” locks eyes with Cat and scoffs. Cat sighs, once again scanning the CellUStar retail shop. I feel the gap between us widen. If she finally leaves me, I wonder to whom she would go. Surely, there are people out there more suited for her. It must be agony to keep standing next to me day after day — being associated with a thing like me. It must be torture to keep ignoring Heather and the others when they say she could do better. It must be a living hell knowing they’re right. It’s not just my physical traits they hate. That would be too easy. My flaws lie somewhere deeper, woven in the fibers of my personality. I wish I could change for Cat’s sake. I really do. “The update is applied,” Scott, Cellular Expert, says. No “so” this time. How refreshing. I nod. “I’ve done four factory resets as well.” He hands the phone to Cat. “Well,” he says. “The phone is pretty new. Do you want to replace it?” “Would that be a hassle for you? “Cat asks him. “It looks like you’re pretty busy today.” “It shouldn’t be a hassle for him to do his job,” I say. He gives Cat a wry smile and says, “I’ll go get the paperwork.” I frown. Cat smiles at Scott in the same way she smiles at our creepy next door neighbor when he compliments her calf muscles. “I want a new number too, guy!” I shout at Scott’s back. “In case it’s not a device-related issue.” Scott turns to face us again. His smile vanishes. 2:31 PM. The phone goes off on the counter in front of us. We all hurry over and look down at the phone. Glyphs flash for all to see. I answer and tap the Speaker button. Like always, there is only silence. “Hello?” More silence. Finally, the call disconnects. “Well?” I ask. My eyes flick between Cat and Scott, daring them to mention the U-Phone’s character library again. Cat shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath. I read her lips and frown. “Yes, yes,” I say. “Of course, I would have this problem. It’s always me, right? It’s always, always me.” “So,” says Scott. I exhale through my nose. “I’ve never seen that before, but I assure you that SpamStop Premium will stop it.” “Now you listen–” “Just give him a new number,” says Cat. “He only talks to me, anyway.” Pushing past me, she says, “I’ll have the car ready when you’re done, Tim.” As I wait for Scott, I watch Cat from the display window. I should buy her flowers, but with what money? How would I get to the florist without her? I am a dependent. I am a hostage in this life. I try to remember the good between us. I feel warmth and safety and love when I stand next to her. When the panic attacks come at night. When I cry at the fact that I can’t remember why I look like a monster. When I can barely think at all. Through all of my pain, I still can’t figure out why Cat chooses to stay by my side. Maybe she stays because it’s just easier now. I can sense Scott’s presence through the return of my headache. He hands me a new cell phone. A transparent sheet of plastic still covers the black screen. “New phone. New phone number,” he says. I nod and sign the papers he hands me. Without Cat here, all pleasantries fade from him. “So, what’s with the tattoos? And the eye? It’s like a bright blue ball.” I try to escalate my inner panic to anger enough to strike him or curse him out. Yet his abrasiveness makes me stumble. I walk toward the front door in a rush. “But the biggest question is,” he says loud enough for the happy selfie-taking couple to hear. “How did a freak like you catch a girl like that?” On my way out, I kick over a display of phone cases. The crashing silences all patrons and employees alike. Cat looks up just in time to see my outburst through the store window. — Flurries fall from the white sky as Cat speeds down the old country road. “And another thing,” she says, red-faced, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “The theatrics? Really?” I watch the loading bar on my new phone. “Your appeasing air was theatrical enough for the both of us,” I say. She looks over to me, slack-jawed. “That’s not fair,” she says. “You two had something going on. I saw how he stared at you.” “And did I return the stare?” “No.” “No, I didn’t. I went to the car because I was going to slap him, or you, or both.” Bare trees speed by my car window. Snow sticks to nearby fields of dead vegetation. I feel like a deer trapped by hunters. “You don’t get it,” I say, my voice barely audible above the growling car engine. “What don’t I get, Tim? I know you hate being near people but you have a problem with everybody. Yes, he made you feel bad, but you don’t have to be an ass. People are always going to stare. Always.” The car accelerates. The phone’s loading bar nears its completion. “Take me home,” I snap. “Nope. You promised if I took you to the phone store, you’d come with me to my dad’s for dinner. That’s the plan!” she says. She hits each syllable like hands beat war drums. “He never makes anything I can eat,” I say. “You can drink water.” Tears fall down my face without me realizing it. “Tim,” Cat says. I remain silent. The phone flashes a bright welcome screen. It auto-populates all the information from my old phone. “Tim. Talk to me,” she says as my tears flow. “I don’t know why you bother to stay with me. You clearly hate me,” I say. Shock washes over her face. Then, her car’s speaker emits a loud chirp. “New Bluetooth device connected,” it says. Something is coming. I feel like I’m falling off a cliff right in my seat. With that, the phone goes off, sending a booming upbeat ringtone through the car. “The glyphs are back,” I sigh. “Great,” Cat says, slamming her steering wheel. “I can’t deal with this.” She pulls over in a patch of mud next to a field. She punches the green button on the car’s touchscreen. This time, the silence is different. There is a murmur underneath static. A language I can’t make out. “Who the hell is this?” Cat shouts. “What do you want from him?” Yet there’s something in the voices. Something familiar. Something… The words are scrambled, yet they sound eloquent. Musical. Mournful. “Who are you?” Cat shouts. “Come home,” a deep voice says. “We’ve found you. Come home.” “How?” I ask. Cat gasps and looks at me. “You can understand it?” I nod. “We’re here,” says the voice. My car door opens itself, revealing three people approaching the car about three hundred feet away. Their faces look like mine. Both my eyes explode with blue light and a heaviness I didn’t know was inside vanishes without warning. I look to Cat. She’s motionless, gawping at the beings approaching us. “What are you?” she whispers. I look down at my hands. More markings appear by the second. In a moment, they will cover me. “I don’t know,” I say. I look at the three others and smile. “Will you come with me to find out?” I ask. Cat closes her eyes, almost like she’s in pain. “Cat. We’ve known I was different for a long time. I - I love you-” “No,” she says, shaking, swaying. “No, no.” I get out of the car, closing the door behind me. There is hope and loss and light and love and solitude swirling within me. As dead as I felt before, I now feel twice as much alive. I know accepting myself will make me alone again, but I can’t go back to ignorant pain. In a new life, I could face my grief head-on. Yet then I hear another door close. She’s standing there, shaking but smiling by my side.