Her Last Text Still Haunts Me

It’s been 418 days.

Four hundred and eighteen sunrises. Four hundred and eighteen nights. And every single one has ended with me staring at the same glowing screen… reading the same message over and over again.

*"I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me."*

That was the last text she ever sent.

No name. No explanation. No goodbye. Just seven words that broke me in more ways than I thought possible.

Her name was Zara. And she wasn’t just my girlfriend—she was my anchor, my calm, the one who knew how to quiet the noise inside me. We met in college, sitting next to each other in a boring literature class we both didn’t want to take. Her laugh came first. Then her stories. Then her silence—the kind she only shared when she trusted you.

She had eyes that saw everything and still chose to stay. She made you feel like you mattered, like even your quietest thoughts were worth listening to. But behind that light… was a darkness she rarely talked about.

[7/4, 10:02 AM] Chat GPT: Zara battled depression. Not the kind people post about for likes, but the kind that sits in your bones, that makes sunshine feel fake and sleep impossible. She never played the victim. In fact, she was always the one helping others. But inside, she was fighting wars no one could see.

I tried to be there. I listened, held her when she cried, stayed up late on nights she couldn’t sleep. I thought that was enough.

I was wrong.

---

The day she disappeared started like any other. We had coffee. She said she felt “weird” but smiled anyway. I told her I’d call after work.

By the time I did, it was too late.

Her phone rang twice, then went straight to voicemail. I didn’t panic at first—she sometimes took space. But then that text came, at 8:42 PM.

*"I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me."*

I called. Again. And again.

No answer.

I called her roommate. Then her sister. Then the police.

The next morning, they found her near the lake outside the city. She had left her phone in her bag. Her journal, too.

The note inside was short:

*“I’m tired. I’m so, so tired.”*

---

The funeral was a blur. The condolences all sounded the same.

“She was so bright.”

“She didn’t seem like she was struggling.”

“If only we had known…”

But I knew.

[7/4, 10:02 AM] Chat GPT: Maybe not how close she was to the edge… but I knew she was hurting.

And yet, somehow, I still missed the moment she truly slipped away.

---

Every night since, I’ve read her last text.

Not because I want to hurt. But because it’s all I have left.

Her voice in words. Her fear wrapped in an apology.

*"Please don’t hate me."*

How could I ever hate her?

I hate the illness that lied to her.

I hate the silence that convinced her she was alone.

I hate that the world never gave her space to speak without judgment.

But I could never hate *her*.

I started writing letters to her after she was gone. Pages and pages of things I never got to say. About the plans we made, the coffee shop we loved, the playlist she left on my Spotify. About how I still keep her scarf on the chair she used to curl up in.

Some nights I write with tears. Other nights, just numb fingers.

But always, the same ending:

*“I miss you. I always will.”*

---

It took me almost a year to open up about Zara publicly. But when I did — on a blog post titled *“The Text I Still Read”* — hundreds of people messaged me. Some had lost loved ones to suicide. Others were survivors themselves.

And I realized something:

[7/4, 10:02 AM] Chat GPT: Zara’s story wasn’t just hers. It belonged to countless people walking through life with invisible battles.

So I started something in her name — *The Zara Project.*

A small space online for those who feel unseen.

We host chats, send care packages, connect people to real support.

It won’t bring her back.

But maybe… it will stop someone else from sending a similar text.

---

*Her last words still haunt me.*

Not because they broke me…

But because they remind me what’s at stake when we stop checking in.

When we stop *listening*.

If you’re reading this and you’re hurting, please:

Don’t apologize for your pain.

Don’t disappear into silence.

Your story isn’t over.

Not yet.