The Last Message I Never Sent

The Last Message I Never Sent

It’s been six years since Lily vanished, but some mornings I still wake up expecting a reply to my last message.

She was my best friend. Not just the kind you laugh with, but the kind who knew your favorite song before you did. The kind who stayed up with you through heartbreaks, breakdowns, and birthday cake disasters. The kind of friend you believe will grow old with you.

And then she was gone.

We were both 19, stumbling through the chaos of college, love, and loneliness. I still remember that fight. It started over something small — a missed call, a late reply — but grew into a storm of resentment and silence. We said things we didn’t mean. Or maybe we did mean them, but not in the way they came out.

I drafted a message to apologize. I wrote and rewrote it a dozen times. The words never felt good enough.

Then one day, she just stopped showing up. No texts. No updates. No posts. It was as if Lily had vanished off the face of the earth.

I messaged her again after three weeks.

“Hey, I miss you. Can we talk?”

No response.

I messaged again a month later.

“Lily, I’m sorry. I really messed up. Please just let me know you’re okay.”

Still nothing.

Eventually, her number went out of service. Her social media profiles were either deleted or left untouched for months. I reached out to mutual friends, but nobody knew anything. Some said she moved abroad. Others whispered about mental health. A few admitted they’d lost touch too.

So I waited.

For birthdays. For random Wednesdays. For the anniversary of our favorite concert. I kept her number saved under “Lily” and never deleted our old texts. I’d scroll through them when I couldn’t sleep, clinging to the pieces of her that still lived in my memory.

Years passed, and I started to live my life again. Slowly, gently. I graduated. Fell in love. Moved to a different city. But every time I walked past a bookstore, or ordered her favorite drink, or heard “Yellow” by Coldplay — I thought of her.

Then, a few months ago, I got a message.

Not from Lily — from her cousin.

She had passed away.

Two years ago.

Suicide.

The words blurred on my screen as I stared at them in disbelief. I had imagined every possibility. But not this. Not her. Not the girl who danced barefoot in the rain and believed in miracles.

Her cousin wrote that Lily had struggled with depression for a long time, but hid it well. That she moved away to try and “start fresh.” That she never stopped talking about me — even during the silence.

“She always wanted to message you,” her cousin wrote. “But she felt like she had already lost you.”

I froze. I hadn’t lost her. I was right here, all along — waiting.

After hours of crying, I opened my phone and found that old unsent message. The one I had written but never sent.

It read:

“I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back.”

I pressed “send,” even though I knew no one would ever read it.

But it wasn’t about her reading it anymore.

It was about me letting go of the guilt. About me saying goodbye, finally, with the love she always deserved.

Now, every year on her birthday, I light a candle by my window. I play “Yellow” and sit in silence, remembering the girl who taught me what soul-deep friendship meant — and what it costs to stay silent when you should speak.

This is for Lily.

For every message we’re too afraid to send.

For every friend we lose to distance, misunderstanding, or time.

And for the ones still here, wondering if someone cares.

Send the message.

Say the words.

Because sometimes, the silence is louder than we can bear.