"The Last Voice Note"

I never meant to send it.

I had recorded the voice note out of frustration, anger… maybe even desperation. It was past midnight, and I hadn’t heard from Arman in over three days. We weren’t officially broken up, but the silence said everything.

I sat on the floor of my apartment, wrapped in the hoodie he left behind — the one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. My thumb hovered over the red record button for a full minute before I finally pressed it.

"Arman, I don’t know what you want from me anymore. One minute you're here, telling me I’m the one. The next, you're gone. Vanished. Do you even care how this feels?"

My voice cracked, and I almost stopped. But I didn’t.

"You said you loved me. But people who love you don’t leave you wondering, don’t leave you hurting in silence. So this is me… done waiting."

I paused before ending the recording. There was a second of silence — a breath — and then I whispered, “Goodbye.”

And somehow, my thumb slipped.

Send.

I gasped, staring at the screen. The recording icon turned into two blue ticks. I had sent it to him.

Panic flooded me. I opened our chat and hovered over the “Delete for Everyone” button, but it was too late. He was online.

He was listening.

I watched in real time as the voice note ended and the typing bubble appeared.

Then nothing.

The typing stopped.

And just like that… he went offline again.

My heart sank lower than it ever had before. I curled into myself and sobbed. Not just because I was embarrassed, or because I had shown too much — but because I had let go. Really let go.

That night, I didn't sleep.

The next morning, I tried to distract myself. Coffee. News. Even scrolling through social media. But everything reminded me of him. Us.

And then I saw it.

A message.

From his sister.

“Hey. Are you okay? I just saw what you sent him. I think you should know… Arman was in an accident two nights ago. He’s in the ICU. He hasn’t been able to respond to anyone.”

The world froze.

What?

I blinked, reread the message, and dropped my phone. I couldn’t breathe. My fingers trembled as I called her.

She explained everything: A hit-and-run. He was walking home late at night, headphones in. He had surgery. Was unconscious for a day. He was stable now, but weak. They hadn’t even looked at his phone until this morning.

And my voice note… was the first thing he listened to when he woke up.

I didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

Guilt strangled me. I had thought the worst of him while he was literally fighting for his life. My goodbye — my bitter, broken voice — was the first thing he heard after waking up in a hospital bed.

I asked if I could visit. She said yes.

Walking into that hospital room was like walking into a dream. He was pale, thinner than I remembered. Tubes in his arm, faint bruising under his eye. But he smiled the moment he saw me.

“You came,” he whispered.

I nodded, tears threatening to pour out again.

“I thought you ghosted me,” I said quietly, unable to look at him.

He laughed — gently, painfully. “I would never ghost you. I was trying to surprise you. I booked tickets to Hunza. Just wanted to get everything perfect first.”

My breath caught. I sat beside him, hands in my lap.

“And instead, I sent you a breakup voice note.”

He reached for my hand, weak but steady.

“I didn’t hear a breakup. I heard pain. I heard honesty. And I heard love, still buried in there, even if you didn’t want to admit it.”

I looked into his eyes, and for the first time in days, I felt safe.

“I thought I lost you,” I whispered.

“You almost did,” he said. “But maybe that voice note saved us both.”

🖋️ Epilogue

It’s been six months.

We never went to Hunza.

Instead, we moved in together, got a cat, and started therapy — together and individually. We don’t avoid hard conversations anymore.

Sometimes, we even joke about that voice note.

But deep down, we both know it changed everything.

Sometimes, the things we never meant to send… are the things that set us free.