There are many things I’d willingly do for love. Hold your hair back while you’re sick. Pretend to understand tax codes. Sit through an entire football match without checking my phone once. Endure your karaoke rendition of Bon Jovi without flinching. But there is one act of devotion so terrifying, so harrowing, that not even Cupid’s fiercest arrow could pierce my resolve: answering a phone call with a withheld number.
The Withheld Number: Modern Horror
What am I, some sort of medieval peasant who answers the door to any cloaked stranger knocking at midnight? No. A withheld number is the 21st-century equivalent of an unmarked white van pulling up outside your house. Who is it? What do they want? Why won’t they reveal themselves like a normal, decent phone number? It’s a digital jump scare, the phone equivalent of someone leaping out of the shadows and shouting “Boo!”
When my phone flashes “No Caller ID,” my immediate reaction is to freeze. I stare at it like it’s an unexploded bomb. My heart rate skyrockets. The call rings out, echoing in my ears like the soundtrack to my inevitable downfall. I imagine men in suits tracing my IP address. I imagine tax fraud I didn’t commit, parking fines I didn’t pay, crimes I couldn’t possibly have orchestrated because I rarely leave the sofa.
What’s the Worst That Could Happen?
Could it be the bank? The doctor? Someone telling me I’ve inherited a small castle in rural France, complete with its own ghostly governess and a tax bill the size of Belgium? Possibly. But it’s far more likely to be:
- A scammer who knows my National Insurance number, my cat’s name, and my star sign.
- A cold caller trying to sell me cavity wall insulation or a funeral plan for a funeral I can’t even emotionally process yet.
- My own sense of dread manifesting into an actual voice.
Or worse, it could be someone I vaguely know, calling with no warning to “catch up,” forcing me to fake enthusiasm while Googling who they are mid-conversation.
Love Has Limits
Do I love you enough to sit in A&E with you for four hours while you insist you’re dying of a mild headache? Absolutely. Will I hold your sweaty hand during a dental extraction while fighting the urge to faint? Of course. Will I answer a withheld call to find out if it’s you calling from someone else’s phone because yours died? Absolutely not. Leave a voicemail like a civilised human or text me your tragic predicament. If you’re in danger, ring me twice. Otherwise, you’re on your own, brave soldier.
Why Do Withheld Numbers Even Exist?
In an age where I can see exactly where my Uber driver is and what his star rating was in 2017, how is it acceptable that anyone can hide their number like a medieval assassin behind a tapestry? Show yourself, coward. If your number is hidden, I assume you’re either a scammer, my GP with blood test results I’m not ready for, or my dentist reminding me it’s been three years since my last hygienist appointment.
The Psychological Toll
Withheld numbers trigger an existential panic like nothing else. It’s the fear of the unknown, condensed into 11 vibrating digits. I could climb a mountain for love, metaphorically at least. But answering a call with no visible number feels like stepping into a void from which I may never emotionally return.
Conclusion
So yes, I’d do anything for love. I’d put up with your snoring, laugh at your terrible jokes, eat your questionable pasta bake, and even accompany you to IKEA on a Saturday. But answer a call from a withheld number?
I’d rather die in ignorance, clutching my phone to my chest, safe in the knowledge that some mysteries are better left unsolved.
Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.
Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.
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