The Message I Never Sent

I still think about it sometimes. That message. The one I never sent.

It wasn’t long. Just a few lines in an email draft, sitting in my inbox at 2:14 AM. “Hey... I know it’s been a while.” That’s how it started.

It was meant for Jamie—my best friend, the person I thought I’d grow old laughing with. The person I shut out for reasons I still don’t fully understand.

We had one of those friendships that felt stitched into the skin. Not flashy or loud—just real. We shared playlists and inside jokes. Burned toast at 1 AM. Long walks talking about what we’d do when we “made it.”

And then... we drifted. No big fight. No betrayal. Just distance. Messages took longer to reply to. Plans were canceled, then never made again.

I got busy. Or maybe I got scared. Jamie always saw through my bullshit—called me out, pulled me back to earth. And I think that kind of honesty scared me more than I admitted. I wasn’t ready to be seen like that.

Then, on my birthday, Jamie messaged me:

“Hey. Happy birthday. Miss you.”

That was it. Simple. Soft.

I stared at the message for a long time. My heart wanted to reply. But I didn’t. I left it there, unread for days, then weeks. Guilt crept in. And one night, when the weight of silence got too loud, I opened my laptop and started typing.

I told Jamie I was sorry. I told them I missed them too. I remembered everything—the old sneakers, the time we got caught in the rain, how they always turned the volume up when my world felt too quiet.

I told them I’d been selfish. That I should’ve tried harder. That I wanted to start again.

And then... I didn’t send it.

I told myself it wasn’t the right time. I’d revise it. Make it cleaner. Less emotional. I’d send it tomorrow.

But I didn’t.

A few weeks later, Jamie died in a car accident. Just like that. Gone.

No warning. No goodbye.

I felt something inside me snap. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just a quiet, awful breaking.

I remember sitting on my bathroom floor the night I found out, holding my phone like it had betrayed me. Reading their old messages. Re-reading my unsent draft.

I wanted to scream. But nothing came out.

I went to the funeral. Stood in the back. Didn’t say anything. I watched people cry, hug, share stories. And I kept thinking—I should be up there. I should be one of them. But I’d vanished from Jamie’s life long before they vanished from mine.

I didn’t just lose a friend. I lost a part of myself I thought I’d always have.

For weeks, I couldn’t sleep. I’d replay old memories like a broken cassette. The time we skipped class and laid under the bleachers, watching the clouds. The time Jamie said, “You don’t have to be anything but yourself around me.” And I laughed, thinking I had forever to believe that.

Regret doesn’t feel like a knife—it feels like a slow ache. A constant “what if” buzzing behind everything you do.

And I wish I could tell you that I’ve forgiven myself. That I’ve made peace with it. But some days, I still open that draft. I still whisper those words into the air, hoping they’ll land somewhere Jamie can hear them.

I write messages now. I send them. Even when it feels awkward. Even when it’s been “too long.” Because I know what silence costs.

I lost someone who mattered because I let time and pride and fear win. And now all I have is a message that was never read.

If you’re reading this, and there’s someone you’ve been meaning to reach out to—do it. Don’t wait for the perfect words. Don’t wait for the right mood. Just... do it.

Because some messages can’t wait forever.

And some regrets don’t ever fade.