This morning began, as many do,
with a WhatsApp ping from destiny
wearing a budget disguise.
There it was:
+1 (555) 579‑5503
a number so plain
it could have been a parking ticket
or a rogue toaster warranty.
Naturally, I squinted at it
like a detective in a low‑budget noir,
wondering if this was:
a) spam,
b) a wrong number,
c) the beginning of a very niche romance novel.
But no,
the plot thickened.
To reveal the sender,
I had to add the contact myself,
like some kind of digital butler
announcing guests at the door.
And then,
oh then,
the transformation.
The moment I tapped “Save,”
the number shed its cocoon
and emerged as
Carlo.
Carlo!
Not a mere contact,
but a man who arrives
as if stepping off a private jet
that he pilots only on weekends.
Suddenly my phone felt underdressed.
My morning coffee straightened its posture.
Even my Wi‑Fi tried to look busy.
Because Carlo had arrived in style,
not through grand gestures,
but through the sheer audacity
of making me do the admin
before he made his entrance.
And honestly?
Respect.
Some people knock.
Carlo waits for you
to roll out the red carpet
of your own contact list
before he saunters in.