To Don’t: Open an Old Message from an Old Friend

I had a friend in high school. We were best friends for three and a half years. A good run. (That’s a lie. But anyway.)

Eventually, for reasons I will not elaborate on—because this blog is not a therapy worksheet—we parted ways. We never talked again. One day I noticed that she and her friends had unfollowed me and kicked me out of their Instagram accounts. Very theatrical. Completely unnecessary. But fine. It’s not my job to tell people who they should or shouldn’t follow.

Months later, during a noble attempt to free up some storage on my phone, I found our old messages. Naturally, I thought:

“Hmm. It’s been a while. We had some good times, even though I don’t like her anymore. I wonder what we used to talk about…”

WRONG.
W-R-O-N-G.
Wrong.

Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? What is the evolutionary purpose behind digging up dead conversations like it’s emotional archaeology?

Oh, my sweet, sweet child, with the brain cell count of a very tired bee.

So what did I do?
The moment I opened the chat, I liked an old post I had sent her.

An ancient, dusty meme.
Now eternally preserved in Messenger history like a cursed scroll.

And the worst part?
It sticks.
It stays there.
It haunts you.

I panicked. Stress began seeping out of my pores like smoke from a haunted toaster. I ran to my boyfriend—stumbling, breathless—and attempted to explain what had happened.

But I couldn’t even form real words. I just sputtered like a Victorian ghost trying to warn someone of their doom.

To his credit, he was calm and supportive. “It’s no big deal,” he said. Bless him. Love you, king <3. But I had already emotionally flatlined.

I had cramps all night. My brain was screaming—not metaphorically. I think I actually heard it.

And then, the next morning:
She saw it.

SHE. SAW. IT.

Round two of the shame Olympics began. My soul attempted to evacuate my body. I strongly considered burying myself six feet underground and asking someone to pile on extra soil in case a future archaeologist tried to resurrect my memory.

Even then, I’m convinced they’d rebury me in 2230 just to avoid triggering a global pandemic of secondhand embarrassment. Miss Carey’s Book of Radiation will still be glowing, but my shame will have passed through the earth’s core by then.

The lesson:
If the message is from the past—just delete it.
You don’t need closure. You don’t need memory.
If someone chooses to end a friendship, let that digital graveyard rest in peace.
There’s no point digging it up just to trip and fall face-first into your own emotional lava.