You wake up the next morning, Saturday, in your bed in your small apartment in NYC. Grey, dull light falls into your room, despite the curtains you've pulled down, and you groan, only half awake, while turning over on your stomach, burying your face in your pillow. You lie for a few seconds, noticing a strange feeling spreading in you, a strange... excitement. You remember something, vaguely, a good dream? A man, tattoos, a warm hand on your hip... And the scent of tomato sauce, cheese and... pizza. Why on Earth did you have a dream about a man and pizza? You try to recreate the dream, struggle to remember, but it keeps slipping away from you, and you give up after a moment, thinking it probably wasn't anything worth remembering. You're the kind of person who has nightmares instead of dreams, and so you probably just made it up somehow. Although... for some reason, you really wish you'd remember. You reach out with your hand, blindly trying to grab your phone you always put on the nightstand, and after a few seconds, you find it and wrap your fingers around it. You throw a glance at it to check the time, and you see it: 8:18 am. Then you freeze. The clock isn't the only thing that's popped up on your screen. Underneath, from a number you don't recognize, you see a text message.
- Stop fucking me over. I won't do this shit. Call me.
You stare at it for a couple of seconds. Read it again. Stare at the phone number. Wrong number, definitely, but who sent it? You hesitantly open the message, and you stare with wide eyes as a message string comes up. This person's written to you before?! You look at the messages, and then, when you see the picture at the very top, and click it just to see yourself standing next to Adam Levine, as in the lead singer of Maroon 5 Adam Levine, you remember your "dream". You went to buy a pizza last night... and you met Adam Levine! You recall it and you can barely believe it, even though you're looking right at it. The picture was taken on his phone because yours had no more space for photos, and he sent it to you. For some reason, he sent you something else, something angry, upset, and it obviously wasn't meant for you. You pull the message to see what time it was sent. 1:43 am. Just a little less than two hours after you got that picture taken with him. You furrow your brows, and wonder what's going on. For some reason, you feel as if you should make him aware that he sent the text to the wrong person. Maybe he doesn't know, and he's expecting an answer that'll never come. It would be best to write him. Yet you stare at the phone, at his message, and hesitate. He's a celebrity, but he's also a person, and you can't just text him like that. He probably already forgot you, and you have no business in his life whatsoever. You should just delete the message right now and forget about it. It was a private message, and it wasn't for you. You shouldn't even have read it.
But then again...
If you don't make him aware that he's texting to the wrong person, maybe he'll write again, and he'll have accidentally shared a private conversation with a stranger who has no right to read all the things he'll be texting. Really, that would be worse than a little heads up, wouldn't it? - Hi, I'm really sorry, but you wrote a message that wasn't for me, you write slowly, your mind racing. You think for a second, and then delete it all again. - Hey, I think you sent something to the wrong number last night...
How the hell do you make it sound right?!
- I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you sent it to the wrong number...
No.
- Wrong number.
Too cold?
- Hi. You sent it to the wrong number. I hope you're ok.
No, no, no, no. Way too personal. Where did that even come from? In the end, you decide for the short and simple.
- Hi. Wrong number.
You take a deep breath and press send. You kind of just hope he won't answer. That he'll just read it and delete it and leave it be. That he won't make it more awkward than it already is. Honestly, you doubt he will. He probably doesn't have the time. He's a busy man. He has better things to do than answer some random number, making him aware of a bummer. Maybe, you think, he's already made up with whoever he meant to send that message to. Maybe it was his girlfriend, and now they're making out on the couch. It wouldn't surprise you.
You get out of the bed, and head to the bathroom, drowsy and in the mood for a long, hot shower. You leave your phone on the bed, not bothering to take it with you, nor to see the miracle happen twenty-four minutes later.
