Gross
When you flush a toilet with the lid up, it doesn't just remove what you flushed. It aerosolises a fine mist of it into the surrounding air — a phenomenon researchers have measured, because someone had to. That mist travels further than most people assume, up to six feet in some studies, which is further than the distance between most toilets and the counter your phone is sitting on.
If your phone is on that counter, propped against the tank, or in your hand while you flush, it is inside the blast radius. It's a hard surface, faintly warm, full of seams and grooves — a genuinely good surface for bacteria to land on and stay put. Studies swabbing phones have found bacteria counts higher than public toilet seats, not because phones are unusually dirty, but because toilet seats get cleaned regularly and phones, as a rule, do not.
Ask yourself, without flinching, when you last wiped your phone down with anything stronger than your sleeve. Most people can't recall, because nobody ever taught them to. We disinfect toilet seats on instinct. We've never once been told to disinfect the object we carry into the room with the toilet seat.
And then the phone goes straight back to your face — held to your cheek on a call, close enough to read, occasionally near your mouth if you're eating and scrolling at once. Whatever landed on it during that flush doesn't stay there politely. It transfers, repeatedly, to whatever it touches next.
None of this requires you to become a person who disinfects their phone nightly, though you're welcome to. The simpler fix is keeping the phone out of the blast radius altogether. Outside the door, it isn't part of the mist, and the whole problem is solved without adding a single habit to remember.
And that's why I urge you, for the sake of the human race and the surface of your own face, to consider any product that keeps your phone out of that room entirely. We happen to make one — drop it. It costs less than a phone case and does considerably more good.