When I got a new phone number, I expected mild inconvenience. You know. Updating contacts. Telling my mom I changed it so she wouldn't think I died. What I did not expect was to wake up the next morning to 14 text messages from men I had never met.
Not "hey beautiful" dating-app messages.
More like:
"You working tonight?"
"You free after 9?"
"Same place?"
"I've got cash."
Cash. Sir. For what? Now, to be fair, this was a very active dating era for me. I was on multiple apps. I had recently given my number out to several people. I was not exactly living like a nun.
So at first, I thought: Oh no. My dating life finally caught up to me. But the volume didn't make sense.
There were messages from numbers I had never seen. Men adding me on that old messaging app that synced to your phone contacts. Random friend requests. Midnight "u up?" texts. Photos I absolutely did not ask for. They all had the same energy. Confident. Like they'd already paid a deposit.
The weirdest part? They kept calling me Lindsay. Which was close enough to my real name that I answered to it twice before my brain went, Wait a second.
One guy texted: "Lindsay I'm outside." Outside where, sir?? My house?? The grocery store?? The concept of outside??
At that point I started replying: "I think you have the wrong number."
But instead of apologizing, they'd respond with: "This is Lindsay's number."
"Stop playing."
"You don't remember me?"
The audacity. I was actively dating at the time. My phone was already chaotic. So blending my normal romantic nonsense with what I now realize was someone else's… roster… didn't feel completely foreign. It just felt… excessive.
Like my dating life had been upgraded to Premium Plus. Then came the prison call. Caller ID said it was coming from a correctional facility. No big deal, I had a friend incarcerated, so I answered casually. "Hey!"
The man on the other end was warm. Familiar. Confident. We talked for five minutes before something felt off. He mentioned a memory I didn't have. He referenced a visit that never happened. Finally he said: "Lindsay?"
And I said: "No… this isn't Lindsay."
Long pause. "…This is Lindsay's number."
"No, I've had this number for a few months."
Another pause. Then, very casually: "Well, Lindsay and I usually hang out. I've got some money if you want to come see me when I get out."
Silence. I blinked at my phone like it had personally betrayed me. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"You know. I pay her for her time."
And just like that, the universe clicked into focus. The messages. The cash offers. The unsolicited anatomy photos. The confidence. Lindsay wasn't just busy. Lindsay had a business model. I started laughing. He started laughing. "I promise you," I said, "I am not that Lindsay."
He tried to pivot. "Well… we could still talk."
Sir... NOOOOOOO.
After that call, everything made sense. I wasn't being aggressively desired. I had inherited a client list. Over the next few months, the messages slowly tapered off. Fewer photos. Fewer "you up?" texts. Fewer men asking about rates. Eventually, Lindsay's digital ghost started to fade.
Then came the text. "I'm looking for Lindsay. Is this still her number?"
I responded the way I had dozens of times before: "No, I'm sorry. I've had this number about six months."
The typing bubble appeared again. "My name is William. I'm her brother." My stomach dropped. "I've been trying to find her. If you ever hear from her… could you tell her I'm sorry? And that I love her? I just want to talk to her again."
Everything shifted. Suddenly this wasn't funny. She wasn't a punchline. She wasn't just a wild backstory to my phone number. She was someone's sister. Someone who was missed. Someone who might be lost. I told him I was so sorry. That I hadn't heard from her. That if I somehow did, I would pass the message along. He thanked me. I never heard from him again.
But I couldn't let it go. So I did something probably ridiculous. I opened that old messaging app and started going through the men who had added me months earlier. The ones who seemed less creepy. The ones who used actual sentences. I messaged them. "Hey, this is going to sound strange, but I have Lindsay's old number. Her brother is looking for her. Do you happen to have her new contact info?"
Most didn't respond. Some said no. A couple asked if I was "available instead."
Men. *Eyeroll*
I probably messaged way more of them than I should have. Looking for a woman I had never met. Trying to reunite a brother with a sister who may not have wanted to be found. Eventually I had to let it go. I never found out what happened to Lindsay. I don't know if she changed numbers on purpose. If she moved. If she disappeared. If she's thriving somewhere.
But sometimes I still think about her. And I hope her brother found her. Because for a brief, bizarre season of my life, I lived in the echo of hers. That echo ended in a text that didn't feel funny at all.