The Last Message

The phone buzzed at 1:43 a.m.

I was half-asleep, curled under a pile of blankets with the TV humming in the background. The screen lit up the dark room. A message from Liam.

We hadn’t spoken in over a month.

My heart skipped. I stared at the screen without unlocking it, as if just reading his name might wake up all the memories I’d tried so hard to put to sleep.

Finally, I swiped it open.

“I didn’t know how else to say this. I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder.”

That was it.

No punctuation. No explanation. Just… regret.

I sat up in bed, the weight of his words suddenly unbearable. Liam never apologized. He was stubborn, always composed. For him to send something like that in the middle of the night—it had to mean something.

I typed:

“Liam? What’s going on?”

Sent.

“Are you okay?”

Sent.

“Please answer me.”

Sent.

Nothing.

I watched the screen for another ten minutes, the three gray dots never appearing.

My mind jumped to every worst-case scenario. I called. No answer. I texted again. Still nothing. I was no longer tired—my body thrummed with panic.

I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and drove through the empty streets to his apartment. Every red light felt like a punishment. I didn’t even know if he still lived there. Part of me didn’t care.

When I got to his building, the lobby door was open. I buzzed until a half-asleep tenant let me in.

I ran up the stairs, each step echoing in the silent hall. Apartment 3C.

I knocked. Then banged.

“Liam? It’s me. Please, open up.”

Nothing.

A neighbor peeked out of their door. “You okay?”

“I’m trying to check on someone,” I said, voice shaky.

Eventually, someone called the building supervisor. He showed up groggy and irritated but opened the door after hearing the urgency in my voice.

The apartment was quiet. Dark. But not empty.

Liam was there.

On the couch. Eyes closed. A near-empty bottle on the floor. His phone clutched in his hand.

He was breathing—barely.

The hospital said he’d overdosed. Not enough to kill him, but enough that it could’ve, if I hadn’t shown up when I did.

They let me sit with him after he stabilized. He was still unconscious, a machine keeping rhythm with his breath.

I looked down at his phone. It was locked, but I didn’t need to see the rest of the messages. I knew that text was meant to be a goodbye. Not just an apology. A final surrender.

We had been everything to each other once. High school sweethearts turned long-distance survivors. Until we weren’t. The breakup wasn’t dramatic—it was slow. Like watching color drain from a photograph.

But that message shattered me. Because it reminded me: just because love fades, doesn’t mean the pain does.

When he woke up the next day, he looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real.

“You read it?” he whispered.

I nodded, tears already falling. “Why didn’t you call me?”

He looked away. “I didn’t think you’d care anymore.”

“I do,” I said. “I did. I just didn’t know how to anymore.”

Silence sat between us. Not heavy, just honest.

Liam stayed in the hospital for a week. He agreed to therapy, something he had refused for years. He didn’t ask me to stay. I didn’t promise I would. But every day I came back.

Not to pick up where we left off—but to make sure he didn’t feel as alone as he thought he was.

Weeks passed. One morning, I got another text from Liam. Not in the middle of the night this time. It was 10:12 a.m.

“Thank you. For not letting that be the last message.”

I smiled.

Because sometimes, the end of something doesn’t come with silence—it comes with the courage to speak again.