I know this sounds completely messed up, but I still pay for my mother’s cell phone. She’s been gone for, what, almost two years now? And yeah, I still pay the bill. Automatic deduction, every month. It's almost... funny (or maybe I just laugh so I don't cry, who knows). The thing is, I send her texts. Every day. Little updates. About my miserable freelance gigs, how I almost nailed that big project but didn’t (again), the price of milk going up. All the stuff she’d normally ask about, if she were still here. It feels... stupid, I know. A grown woman, almost retirement age, sending texts into the ether. But it’s not like anyone else is calling me. (It’s a lonely life, this hustle gig. No benefits, no steady paycheck, just always chasing the next crumb.) And that’s the real kicker, isn't it? The money. I complain about money constantly, because I’m always broke. Always. (Freelance life is great for flexibility, not so great for, you know, eating.) So why on earth am I still shelling out for a dead woman’s cell phone? It’s not like she’s going to call me back and tell me I WON THE LOTTERY. Or even just... "I love you." Which is probably why I do it. Because I know she can't. And I can say all the things I wish I’d said when she was alive, without having to actually say them out loud. (It’s a cheap therapy session, I guess, if you count the phone bill.) Sometimes I think about canceling it. Just cutting the cord. It’d save me what, thirty bucks a month? That’s like, a week’s worth of groceries. Or half a tank of gas. But then what? What would I do with all these thoughts, these little bits of my day, if I couldn't send them to the one person who always pretended to care? Even if it’s just a ghost in the machine now. I’m a grad student, you'd think I’d be smarter about this. But here I am, tapping away at 2 AM, telling a disconnected number about my latest academic struggle, hoping for… what exactly? Absolution? A sign? (Probably just hoping my phone bill doesn't get shut off before I hit send.) It’s probably a good thing she can’t respond. I can’t imagine what she’d say to this mess of a life I’ve made. (She’d probably tell me to get a real job. Again.)