Every morning — ever since I first got my phone — I would always check my notifications to see who texted me. In my youth, my mind was like clay, easily molded by society’s belief that receiving numerous texts equated to popularity. I began to link popularity in notifications with likeability, convinced that the more messages I received, the more I would be cherished. I tried so hard to be liked, to get over a hundred notifications when I woke up. Yet every morning, I woke up disappointed.

This trend continued for years, I always woke up to no notifications. I never lost hope, strangely enough; I was always optimistic that one morning, someone would care enough to text me. Finally, in ninth grade, I decided that in order to get more texts, I needed to be nicer to people. I let people walk all over me because I thought that was what it took to be liked. I was constantly taken advantage of, although sure enough, I began getting more texts. These texts were centered around problems, around people asking for homework answers and never even bothering to say thank you. I was still waiting for someone to send me that simple text, a text that would mean the world to me: “good morning.”

Life continued to come and go, and more people reached out to me only when they needed to vent or rant about their own problems. I still let them; I was happy that they chose to text me. Out of all the people and all the friends in the world, for some reason, they chose to contact me about it. That must mean I’m special. That must mean I’m valued. That must mean people like me, right?

“I need the answers to the homework.”

“This girl is being so annoying…”

“Gosh, you’re so skinny, you’re lucky.”

I consistently played the role of a homework provider, the empathetic ear for rants, and the comforting presence for those grappling with body image concerns. My days were marked by a routine of assistance, as I willingly shouldered the burdens others placed upon me. I would always try to keep the conversation going, to ask them how their day was and what exciting plans they had coming up. The excuses came quickly: “Sorry, I have to go.” “I’m busy.” “Lol, I’m good.” After a year of these texts, it began wearing on my mental health and degrading my sense of self-worth. I was the heartfelt confidant, inquiring about their lives and emotions, yet the emptiness of my own inbox echoed the silence that enveloped my own world. The absence of questions or genuine interest left me yearning for a connection that never seemed to materialize.

Slowly, my view on popularity and text messages began to change. The once-pleasant chime of my phone’s notifications transformed into a foreboding symphony that played both day and night. Each buzz became a haunting reminder that I was a peripheral character in others’ lives, summoned only when solitude or restlessness compelled them to seek company. Still, with every buzz I got in the morning, I kept thinking that today would somehow be different. My hope: a storm cloud of rain making its way across a field of water-deprived crops. My hope: the first flower budding after a harsh frost, a pop of color in the monotony of winter.

In 10th grade, I continued to let people walk all over me. My only line of defense: at least they chose me. My need to be needed continued to grow, forcing me to be glued to my phone at all times, always texting and always comforting and always yearning for more. I dished out so many compliments that they became void of meaning, just another word.

My heart gravitated toward a single soul that year, a boy whose presence in my thoughts was as instant as the sun across the sky. Each morning, as I awoke, my heart fluttered with anticipation, yearning for the elusive “good morning” text that would bring warmth to my life. It might as well have been the equivalent of the big “L” word (Love). Sometimes, people ask me why I don’t just tell people I want a good morning text, but they don’t understand. The point is not to tell; the point is for it to be pure and meaningful, and for someone to truly wake up and think of only me, wanting to wish me a good morning compared to the billions of other people in the world. As the world I once viewed through rose-colored glasses darkened, I began to see the true colors of the boy I admired. His self-centered nature, which had been masked by my infatuation, became glaringly evident. It dawned on me that the simple act of sending a “good morning” text, no matter how effortless, was beyond his capacity for consideration.

The world became bleak — dramatic and common for a teenage girl, I’m aware — and I began to lose hope of ever getting those two words said to me. I yearned for the two words so much it threatened to destroy me, an unquestionable ache in my chest, constantly beating. I only needed it once, from one person, and I thought my life would be complete.

I reached a point where I realized not everyone was destined to awaken to those cherished messages. Thus,  assumed the role of the morning messenger, crafting warm greetings and sending them out into the digital dawn. Every morning, when I woke up, I sent “Good morning!” messages to everyone I cared about, and slowly the list grew to over 30 people. Every morning, before I eat or brush my hair, I rush to my phone to send out the texts. I thought everyone would value them as much as I did; I thought I was doing something good, something small that could bring light into someone’s morning.

Sometimes, people ask me why I didn’t start sending them myself earlier, because after I sent them I would be sure to receive them back. Right? At first, people were enthusiastic, sending them back and sometimes even adding fun emojis or exclamation marks! Yet people stopped responding, leaving me on read or sometimes not even opening them at all. As days turned into weeks, I felt like I’d squandered any hope of reciprocity. The few who bothered to respond did so with subtle complaints, questioning my choice of blue emojis when, in their minds, red ones were the expected hue. They are only sending me back the text of my dream out of obligation, out of pity.

I still send them, even to this morning. On the surface, I know that no one truly cares about the text, and they probably never will. Yet deep down, I can always hope that maybe the simple text I wanted so much and will never receive will make someone smile, make someone feel special and start their day off in the right direction. I will never receive a genuine, unprompted text, one that holds a value more than I hold even myself.

Not everyone is meant to be a Zeus, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that Hermes can be important too, only in a different way. I want everyone to be happy, and if that means sacrificing my own happiness, I will gladly take that route.

So: Good morning! I hope you have a wonderful day.