I Got a Message From My Dead Brother on Instagram

It was 2:13 a.m. when my phone buzzed, lighting up the darkness beside my bed. Half-asleep, I reached for it, expecting another spam DM or maybe one of those “are you awake?” texts from someone who shouldn’t matter anymore. But when I saw the name, I stopped breathing.

It was from my brother.

The one who’d been dead for four years.

My heart didn’t just drop, it collapsed. For a few seconds, I honestly thought I was dreaming. Or losing my mind. His profile picture hadn’t changed. It was still that blurry photo of him grinning stupidly in front of a bonfire. The same one we used for his obituary. His handle, his bio, everything, untouched since the accident.

But the message was new. And chillingly simple.

“I miss you too.”

I sat up so fast I knocked over the glass of water on my nightstand. My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen. I couldn’t stop reading the message. Over and over. I miss you too. I miss you too. I miss you too. Like some glitch in the matrix was trying to crawl through my chest and wrap its fingers around my heart.

He had been gone for four years. Killed in a hit-and-run two blocks from our house. We never found the driver. I had just turned twenty-one when it happened. And I hadn’t forgiven myself since.

Because I was the one who told him to walk home that night.

He’d been drunk and stubborn, he always was. I offered to call him a ride, but he waved me off with a crooked smile and a “Relax, I’m invincible.” Those were his last words to me. And the cruel part? I laughed.

I laughed, like it was some kind of joke. Like he really was invincible. Until the cops showed up at our door three hours later with hollow faces and clipped voices. “We’re sorry to inform you…”

No one talks about the way grief rots. It doesn’t just ache, it decomposes you. Quietly. While you smile at the grocery store or laugh at dumb memes. It strips away pieces you don’t even realize you’re losing until you try to be a whole person again and find you’re just… fragments.

So, yeah. Seeing his name pop up like that? It wrecked me.

I didn’t respond. Not right away. I just sat there in the dark, whispering what the fuck to no one in particular. I clicked on the profile. It was still there, still frozen in time. Last post: 2019. A picture of his dog, Ruby, wearing a Santa hat. God, I’d forgotten how he used to narrate her thoughts in a British accent.

Then I noticed something.

Active 5 minutes ago.

My scalp prickled.

It wasn’t a hack. His account had been memorialized. I’d reported it myself. There wasn’t supposed to be a login option anymore. It should’ve been locked. Digital tombstone. Untouchable.

And yet… someone had sent that message.

I messaged back. Who is this?

No reply. Just the cold silence of an app that suddenly felt haunted.

Over the next few days, I spiralled. Slept with the light on. Checked the account every hour. Re-read our old messages like they were sacred scripture. I even called his old number, knowing damn well it had been disconnected. It rang once and went straight to voicemail.

But then, things got weirder.

I started hearing his voice. Not like hallucinations. More like memories playing on loop. Him calling me “squirt,” him cussing at video games, him humming off-key to old Green Day songs while brushing his teeth.

And then the dreams started.

He was always standing just out of reach, on the other side of a glass wall, or behind a door I couldn’t open. He never spoke. Just smiled that lopsided smile, like he was trying to tell me he was okay. That I could stop blaming myself.

The last dream I had, he finally mouthed something.

“Let go.”

I woke up crying. Not the quiet kind. The ugly, gasping, choking kind that leaves you raw for days. And for the first time in years, I felt something crack open inside me. Like maybe forgiveness wasn’t some unreachable myth. Like maybe I didn’t have to carry his death like a punishment.

I don’t know who sent that message. I probably never will. Could’ve been a glitch. Could’ve been a cruel prank. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe let something slip for a second.

Either way, it gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

A chance to say goodbye.

So I messaged him one last time.

“I miss you every damn day. But I think I’m finally ready to let you go.”

And I meant it.