Unread Messages

Emily stared at her phone screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You’d laugh if you saw me now. I still can’t make pancakes without burning the first one.

She hit send. The message was meant for Noah.

It had been three years since he died.

The number still worked. The phone still delivered her texts. She didn’t know why. But in some strange, small way — it kept him alive.

They had met during freshman year at New York University.

Noah was a journalism major with messy brown hair and a camera that never left his side. He carried it like a lifeline, always ready to capture a moment. Emily was a literature student — quiet, thoughtful, often buried in a Murakami novel in the back corner of the library.

One afternoon, Noah plopped down beside her without warning, grinning.

“Books are overrated,” he said. “Let’s go live the story.”

Emily rolled her eyes but smiled.

And that was the beginning.

Their love was a slow burn — a steady warmth growing over time. They spent weekends exploring city parks and hiking trails outside the city, sharing playlists filled with songs that defined their moments. Deep talks stretched into the early hours, laughter echoing through dorm rooms and coffee shops. They argued over music taste, teased each other relentlessly, and shared quiet kisses in the rain.

They made plans — big plans. After graduation, they promised to travel the world together. They talked about cafés in Paris, streets of Tokyo, and beaches in Greece. Everything felt possible as long as they were together.

But just before senior year, life shifted.

Noah left for a photography road trip through the Pacific Northwest. He wanted to capture the rugged beauty of the coast, the misty forests, the endless skies.

Then came the call.

3:17 a.m.

A drunk driver crossed the median on Highway 101.

Noah was gone.

Emily didn’t cry immediately. She didn’t know how.

She skipped his memorial service, unable to face the empty chair at the table, the camera on the windowsill gathering dust. The silence in her apartment was deafening.

One night, when the world felt unbearably heavy, she reached for her phone. She typed a message to Noah’s number:

I hope it was quick. I hope you didn’t feel pain.

No reply, of course.

But somehow, sending the message helped.

Since then, Emily sent dozens of texts — little fragments of her life she wanted him to know:

Your dog still sleeps on your hoodie.

They finally put our song on Spotify.

I got accepted into Columbia. We did it.

Each message was a piece of her heart, sent into the digital space where life and death seemed to meet.

One rainy afternoon, curled up on her couch in Brooklyn, the unexpected happened.

Her phone buzzed.

A reply from Noah’s number.

I’ve read every one of your messages.

Emily froze. Her heart hammered. Her stomach twisted.

She typed immediately:

Who is this? Why are you using his number?

The reply came quickly.

I’m Luke. Noah’s cousin.

I found his old phone in a box when we cleaned the attic. I charged it... and your messages came flooding in.

I didn’t mean to read them. But once I started… I couldn’t stop. They’re beautiful. You loved him so deeply.

Emily didn’t respond for hours. When she finally did, it was simple.

He was my entire world.

Luke replied:

I think he knew that. Your messages... they feel like poetry.

They started talking.

Luke was two years older, a musician living in Boston. He remembered Emily from a Thanksgiving years ago.

“I was the guy who dropped cranberry sauce all over your boots,” he joked.

For the first time in days, Emily laughed.

Texts turned into phone calls. Conversations deepened. They talked about grief — how to carry it without letting it crush you. About moving forward while holding onto memories. About music, photography, coffee versus tea.

Nearly a year later, Emily found herself walking down a Boston street in early autumn. The leaves were turning gold and rust, fallen leaves scattered on the sidewalks. She arrived outside a quaint bookstore where Luke waited.

In his hand, he held a single sunflower.

Not as a replacement. Not to erase Noah. But to honor what was — and gently explore what could be.

They smiled. The sunflower was a fragile bridge between past and future, grief and hope.

That night, back in her Brooklyn apartment, Emily opened her phone.

She typed one last message to Noah’s number:

Thank you. For loving me so well — and for sending me someone who sees me, too.

She hit send.

This time, no reply was needed.