The Message I Sent After Two Years

Story Body:

It had been two years since I blocked her.

Two years since I convinced myself that deleting her number would delete the memories too.

I remember that night — she stood in the rain outside my apartment, tears mixing with raindrops, her voice trembling as she said,

> “If you ever miss me, don’t text. Just take care.”

It sounded so final.

I wanted to shout, to tell her to stay, but my ego was louder than my heart.

So I turned away, closed the door, and pretended I didn’t care.

Back then, blocking her felt like winning an argument.

Now, it feels like losing a lifetime.

---

In two years, life changed.

New job, new city, new people — everything looked different, but inside, I stayed the same.

Every morning, I scrolled through my contacts and stopped where her name used to be.

Every night, I wondered if she still thought about me — just once, maybe in the middle of her busy day.

Some nights, I dreamed about her.

In those dreams, she never spoke. She just smiled — the kind of smile that felt like home and hurt at the same time.

I’d wake up with tears on my pillow and convince myself it was just nostalgia.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

Some people don’t leave; they just live quietly inside you, waiting for one message you’ll never send.

---

Last night, I couldn’t sleep again.

The silence was heavy, pressing against my chest.

I opened my old gallery, scrolling through years of photos — and there she was.

Her laughter frozen in pixels, her eyes looking straight into mine as if asking, “Why did you give up on us?”

Before I knew it, I opened Instagram and searched her name.

Her profile wasn’t private anymore.

I clicked.

The first few pictures looked the same — books, sunsets, coffee cups.

But then something caught my eye. A post from her sister, six months ago:

> “It’s been a year without you, and I still can’t believe you’re gone.”

My fingers went numb.

I stared at the screen for a long time, reading the caption again and again until the words blurred.

Gone.

She was gone.

---

That night, at 2:11 a.m., I opened our old chat — the one that ended with her last message.

“If you ever miss me, don’t text. Just take care.”

It felt like the words were breathing, waiting.

I don’t know what came over me, but I started typing.

> “I still miss you sometimes.”

My hands shook as I pressed send.

The message went through — a small blue tick appeared.

I stared at it for minutes, half hoping, half scared.

And then, suddenly — the typing dots appeared.

Someone was replying.

My heartbeat doubled. My eyes filled with tears before the message even arrived.

> “This is her sister. She passed away last year. But… she always said you’d text one day.”

The world fell silent.

I read that line over and over, feeling something inside me break — quietly, deeply, permanently.

---

A few minutes later, another message came.

> “She wrote a letter for you before she got sick. I can send it if you want.”

I couldn’t even type a reply.

All I sent was a single word: “Please.”

Seconds later, my phone buzzed again — a photo appeared.

It was her handwriting.

I would’ve recognized it even in a dream.

The letter read:

> “If he ever texts, tell him I never stopped loving him. Tell him I forgave him long before he ever said sorry.

I hope he finds someone who listens when he falls silent, someone who never lets pride win.

I wish him peace — the kind he couldn’t find with me.”

That was it. Just a few lines. But they carried the weight of everything I’d left unsaid.

---

I sat there till dawn, staring at the message thread — her words, her silence, and my late confession.

Outside, the sky began to lighten. The city woke up.

But for me, time stood still.

I realized love doesn’t die when someone leaves.

It fades slowly — not from memory, but from moments that never happened.

And maybe that’s what regret truly is — the echo of all the words we never said, replaying when it’s already too late.

---

Now, whenever my phone buzzes at night, I don’t rush to check it.

I just look up at the sky and whisper,

> “I still miss you sometimes.”

Because somewhere beyond time, I believe she’s still listening.

---

💭 Ending Note:

Sometimes, the most painful goodbyes are the ones that never had an ending — just a message that came too late.