This past weekend, I mourned the loss of a loved one. More than just 'a loved one,' she was my absolute best friend. We were inseparable; not a day, not a moment, would pass that I did not look to her for help, for guidance, for entertainment, for humor, for knowledge, for friendship. Everything was so easy with her by my side— she enhanced and brightened every single day—and without her, I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly, debilitatingly lost. I literally do not know who I am without her; she was a part of my identity. The hardest part, though, was having to watch her struggle through a long, painful death. At first, she was just slow; soon, she became confused, unreliable, and started doing things she didn’t mean. The more I tried to help her— to fix her— the more she just shut down. Then, one day, she cracked, right there on the street and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wake her back up. I didn’t know what to do so, in a panic, I scooped up her broken remains and carried them with me. It took my parents coming up to visit me to force me to finally accept her loss and move on with my life. Those few days without her felt surreal— my whole world felt smaller— but, at the same time, and I feel guilty saying this, living without her started to feel pretty nice.

Actually, really nice. The more I experienced life without her, the more aware I became of her persistent influence over me. She was so needy: constantly calling, buzzing, pinging, and begging for attention— she couldn’t just let a peaceful moment be. She was manipulative, and she never left me alone; she made me feel like I needed her, like I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without her. Only after she died her tragic death was I able to realize that life without an iPhone is liberating. Yeah, it took some getting used to and it certainly felt lonelier at times but, without her, I became a navigator, an explorer, a Buddha. No, I’m not going to Snapchat this. Yes, I’m asking you for the time. No, I didn’t get your text. Yes, I’m riding the T in silence.

Do you guys realize there’s a world out there? A real world comprised of real, breathing humans? I know all of you will roll your eyes at my seeming condescension, but I have become actually convinced that we really do forget the gravity of that reality sometimes. And it’s easy to, for our phones provide another entire life on top of the one we already live, meaning 'the world with a smartphone' is literally fuller than the world without one. With an iPhone, each minute of the day can have so much more to it. Within a simple walk to the grocery store, I can simultaneously look up the fastest route, be provided walking directions, Instagram-stalk a complete stranger, catch up with an old friend over the phone, snap a photo of a cute dog I pass on my way, check my calendar and text a friend to meet me for dinner later, respond to my professor via email, and check my bank account all before I reach the cash register at Target. Without my iPhone, I walk to Target, buy what I need, and walk home.

It’s actually fascinating how much interaction, entertainment, conversation, and media we all can fit into our daily lives, nowadays. The near limitless opportunities for entertainment and connection that our phones offer us—and pressure, if not force, us to take advantage of—have become so normalized that I fear we often have a hard time allowing ourselves to live simply, or to understand that a day can still feel fulfilling without those forms of excess. No, I don’t need a phone charger. No, I can’t call you back. No, I didn’t see your Instagram. No, I don’t know when I’ll get there, no, I can’t text you later; but, I’ll get there when I get there, and I’ll talk to you when I see you. At the loss of my once best friend—a long beloved iPhone 6— suddenly my time was mine again; that unspoken responsibility and underlying pressure to always be on-call, reachable, and responsive suddenly vanished. And, just like that, the days felt longer, my mind was clearer, and all that seemed to exist in life were the things that actually do exist.

When I went with my parents to replace my phone, I approached the smartphone section without even thinking; but the small periphery of my fixated eye caught the hopeless glance of an unloved Nokia flip phone. I slowly turned and paced over with hesitance, knowing that I was approaching an old friend I had abandoned long ago. I picked her up and gazed at her with desperation, but she couldn’t even look at me— her face wouldn’t even blink awake. “Too much has happened,” I could almost hear her whimper, “it’s too late.” Tears in my eyes (seriously), I set her back down and begrudgingly returned to the iPhones. Every part of me wanted that old friend back. Every part of me craved that simplicity, that sanity, I had achieved through my iPhone-less independence. But, I knew that I, along with my entire generation and each one to follow, have already committed to maintaining this complex, stressful, yet blissful relationship we have with our phones.

Our phones offer us a heightened sense of personal exposure, integration, connection, and expression, making them rightfully desirable. But, the norm (if not expectation) of their use, in light of their addictiveness, formulates a general inability for us to rightly prioritize between both the opportunities and responsibilities of that "fuller" world experienced with a smartphone and those of our "real," lived world, experienced regardless. Because smartphones have become so deeply integrated in society, and because we, as individuals, have become so incredibly dependent on our phones (as both a tool and an inevitable best friend) the line between these two worlds we navigate has become utterly invisible; I would argue it so invisible that we regret to even recognize or value a distinction, at all. It scares me that I catch myself choosing to reply to a text before replying to a spoken question from my friend at the dinner table. It scares me that if I don't check Instagram for a day, it can feel like I missed the equivalent of a day online— that somehow a "day" online could share the weight of a day lived. It scares me how scary a day without an iPhone feels, and it scares me that that's a fear most of us won't ever really face. For, at their core, our relationships with our phones are abusive: we hate them, we love them, and we have no real choice to leave them.