I may have failed math in Grade 11, but leave me on delivered and it won't take long for me to morph into a younger, much hotter version of Pythagoras.

My last message was sent at approximately 7:40 p.m. and it is now 8:08 p.m. In exactly two minutes, I will have been left on delivered for half an hour.

The numbers are in and according to my calculations, if I don't get an answer soon, I won’t make it through the night.

He’s been my boyfriend for about two weeks, and now that the honeymoon stage is over, we’re obviously on very rocky terrain. My last message was a compilation video of those adorable goats that faint when they get excited. How could you not have something to say about that? I fear we will never come back from this. Some things simply cannot be forgiven.

I don't understand. I gave him the best texts of my life! Responses were coming in at record speed, averaging at least four replies a minute. The LOLs were flowing, emojis were flying. We were on fire. We were everything.

At 8:30— I have no choice but to start planning how many cats I’ll be able to financially support on my salary from The Eyeopener. I figure I should at least give them a good life if I can’t give them a father.

At 8:45— I can feel my body starting to physically reject his silence. Medically speaking, is it possible for a girl to die from attention deprivation? I’m losing feeling in my fingertips, my breath is shallow and I’m seeing double. Call an ambulance—no, call my mother! Somebody sedate me.

At 8:50— My stomach drops and I think I’m going to be sick. It dawns on me that there is quite literally only one thing that could explain this. I do something I swore I’d never do, but what’s a double text if not double the love? My fingers dance across my keyboard. I’m feral but I still manage to formulate what I believe to be the most genius message I’ve ever crafted. As I wipe the sweat from my brow, I sit back and examine my handiwork that reads “R u mad at me?”

Surely I’d also be mad if someone did…whatever it is that I did. Honestly, I should be ashamed of myself. I guess I’m only confused about one thing: what exactly did I do?

At 9:32— I’m just about to hit send when I hear a voice from above say “ Girl, stop it.” The voice sounds oddly familiar. Kind of like me, only wiser and with a little more self-respect.

Maybe she’s right. She probably has a great therapist. Should I call my therapist? It has been a while…is my therapist mad at me?

After making a mental note to apologize to my therapist for something, I try to remember what it is she told me to do when I find myself in situations like this.

She’d probably ask something insightful like, “Are you rooted in reality?” Well, let me see. Is my message really being hung to dry? Yes. Should that be considered a crime? Yes. Am I about to slash a tire or smash a headlight or whatever it is Carrie Underwood said to do? Absolutely not.

She’s right. He’s not mad at me. Maybe he accidentally left the tap on while drawing his nightly bubble bath and flooded the apartment. Maybe his bath towel caught on fire while trying to light his favourite Cookie Butter Blossom-scented candle–I know how much he loves that. Or it could be something even worse—he could just think I’m annoying.

Generally, I’m a good person, but even saints were sinners once. It’s time to think about what it could’ve been that may have sent him over the edge. Maybe it’s because I forgot his birthday last week, but that was a week ago. Personally, I’d be over it by now but we all heal at different spe–

Before I can even complete the final step, I hear my phone go off with the sweet song of a new notification. It’s him.

My anxieties are put to rest by one simple message that reads, “Hey, I’m sorry. I was making my mom an Instagram so I can send her the video of the goats.”

Of course that’s what it was. You know, I never doubted his undying love for me. Not even for a second.

What can I say? It was really never that serious.

Let the record show that I have never claimed to be sane or rational, and as a girl, I reserve the right to be a little bit silly. Honestly, if an hour apart sends you into an anxiety-fueled internal spiral, he might just be the one. I guess the part-time DJs/relationship coaches on TikTok were right: Ladies, they always come back.