Inbox (0)

I have 14,872 unread emails.

Promotions. Password resets. Abandoned newsletters. Cold apologies. Warm goodbyes. Missed chances.
I never meant for them to pile up. It just... happened.

At first, I let them slide because I was busy—university deadlines, new jobs, first loves, and last ones. Then it became a habit. Then it became avoidance. And then it became grief.

Emails became ghosts.

I open my inbox one evening just to scroll. I don’t know why. Maybe because the silence of the room feels too full. Maybe because I’m not ready to sleep, or maybe because I need to see her name again.

She used to email me every day, my sister. Not long ones. Just links, jokes, screenshots of dumb things people posted online. Some of them made me laugh so hard I snorted coffee out my nose. Others made me shake my head, smiling, because that was her—Sana. Always two steps ahead of the joke, always a touch of chaos.

But I never replied fast enough.

Sometimes I'd text her instead. "lol." Or "nice." And she’d roll her eyes in the way only sisters can roll eyes. She used to say, "You’re terrible at email. One day I’ll just stop writing, and you won’t notice."

She did. And I didn’t.


---

I decide to clear it. All of it.

Inbox zero. That’s what productivity blogs call it. A clear slate. A mind unburdened.

So I start. Unsubscribe. Delete. Archive.

Every ‘Sale Ends Tonight!’ and ‘Your 20% Code’—gone.
Next: newsletters I never read. TED Talks I never watched. Articles about becoming your "best self" written by people who would probably cry if they saw my desk.

I open a few just to check.
A note from an ex-professor—kind, warm, and still unopened.
Job offers I never replied to.
A message from my grandmother from three years ago, before she forgot who I was:

> “Sweetheart, I made that spinach pie you loved. I don’t know why I’m emailing instead of calling. But it felt nice.”



I leave that one.


---

Then I see her name again.

Sana Malik
Subject: You won’t believe what Dad did today
Unread. From four years ago.

I hesitate. My cursor floats like it’s hovering over a landmine. I click.

> “Okay, full story later but just know:
Dad tried to fix the toaster and somehow short-circuited the whole kitchen.
Also, he claims he ‘felt electricity heal his knee.’
I cannot with this man. lol.”



I laugh. Out loud. For the first time in weeks.

There's another one.
Subject: "Remember the cave?"

> “Found pics from that trip to Wales. You were afraid of the echo, you big baby.
I miss that version of us.”



That version of us.
Before the diagnosis.
Before the slow unraveling of her body, but not her mind.
Before hospital visits, test results, and muted goodbyes over antiseptic-smelling sheets.


---

At 3:07 a.m., I’m still deleting.
But I’m slower now.
Each email is a breadcrumb trail. And I am wandering back through my life.

Old friends. Professors. Past lovers. Forgotten passions.
An email with subject: “Write that book already.”
From her.
From Sana.


---

Then, just as my eyes start to blur from the screen, I see it.

From: Sana Malik
Subject: For Later
Date: 2 days before she died.
Unread.

I sit frozen.

I don’t remember seeing it.

Hands trembling, I click.

> “Hey.

I know you probably won’t see this in time, and that’s okay. I get it. You’ve never liked words when they get too heavy.

But I just wanted to say—you’re doing okay. Even if you feel like you’re not. You were always too hard on yourself.

Promise me one thing.

Don’t let the world rush you.
Take slow mornings. Take photos of the sky. Send dumb emails. Fall in love with your own quiet.

I hope one day you read this and smile. Maybe even laugh. I hope you still laugh.

I hope you get to Inbox (0), and that it feels like peace.

But if you don’t—
that’s okay too.

S.”




I cry like a child.

Not because I didn’t reply.

But because she knew I wouldn’t.


---

It’s 4:39 a.m.

I’ve deleted 14,789 emails.

I keep five.

One from my grandmother.
Two from old friends I miss.
One from a professor who saw potential in me.
And this one—from her.

My inbox isn’t empty.
But it feels lighter.
Like breathing after a long underwater dive.

Inbox (0) isn’t about deletion.

It’s about keeping only what you can carry forward.

And letting the rest drift back into the sea.

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