The Last Message

The First Ping

It was 2:13 a.m. when the notification lit up my phone.

I’d been awake anyway, mindlessly scrolling through videos that I wouldn’t remember in the morning, letting the blue light keep me company in my dim apartment. Sleep and I hadn’t been on speaking terms lately.

The notification wasn’t from any of my usual apps. It was from a messaging platform I’d barely used in years — one I’d only ever downloaded to talk to one person.

Evan.

I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. The profile picture was the same — a blurred image of a boy sitting on a pier at sunset, back to the camera. His username, SeaGlass, hadn’t changed either.

The message was simple.

"Do you remember the sound of the waves?"

For a moment, I thought my heart had stopped.

It had been three years since the last time we spoke. Three years since the silence fell. Three years since I told myself that whatever we’d been… whatever *he* had been… was over.

And now, at 2:13 a.m., he was asking about the waves.

2 Meeting in the In-Between

Evan and I didn’t meet in the way stories like ours usually start. There was no coffee shop collision, no “one seat left” on a crowded train.

We met in the comments section of a photography blog.

It was one of those quiet corners of the internet — the kind where people actually replied thoughtfully, not just to promote themselves. I had posted a photo I’d taken during a trip to the coast, a shot of a wave just before it broke.

Evan had commented:

“Looks like it’s holding its breath.”

I remember smiling at my screen, typing back:

“Maybe it’s deciding whether to crash or retreat.”

And just like that, the thread began. From blog comments to private messages. From messages to late-night voice notes. From voice notes to video calls that stretched until sunrise.

He lived five states away. A small coastal town I’d never heard of before him. He said he could see the ocean from his bedroom window if he leaned out far enough.

I couldn’t see the ocean from anywhere in my landlocked city, but when Evan described it, I could almost hear it.

3 — Love, Pixel by Pixel

We never said “I love you.” Not directly. It was always in code, tucked into phrases like:

“Stay warm tonight.

“Save that song for me.”

“Tell me about the moon where you are.”

But the feeling was there. In the way he remembered my coffee order even though we’d never ordered together. In the way he noticed when I changed my hair before I even mentioned it. In the way his voice softened when he said my name.

We made plans — small ones at first. “One day, I’ll take you to see the lighthouse.” “One day, we’ll walk that pier in your photo.”

The “one days” stacked up like postcards in a drawer.

4 — Fractures

The first crack appeared on a Tuesday night.

We were on a call when I asked about the book he’d been reading.

“What book?” he asked.

“The one you told me about last week. The mystery novel with the lighthouse on the cover.”

Silence. Then: “Oh. Right. I finished it.”

But his voice was different. Too careful.

Later, little things didn’t match. Stories he’d told me seemed to shift. He’d said he had a younger sister once — now she was an only child. He’d mentioned working at a hardware store — now it was a bookstore.

When I pointed it out, he laughed it off. “Bad memory,” he said. “You know I mix things up.”

I wanted to believe him.

5 — The Vanishing

One Friday evening, I sent him a photo of the first snow of the year. He didn’t reply.

I sent another message the next day. And the next.

No response.

The silence stretched into weeks. His profile picture stayed the same, but the green “online” dot never lit again.

I told myself it didn’t matter. People disappear. Especially people you’ve never touched in person.

But I kept the chat. I didn’t delete a single message.

6 — The Return

Which is why, three years later, his 2:13 a.m. message felt like a ghost knocking.

My fingers shook as I typed.

“Yes. I remember.”

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Meet me where we started.”

7 — The Investigation

The next day, I dug through our old messages, searching for clues. “Where we started” could mean the blog. It was still online, though abandoned. My photo was still there. So was his comment.

I replied under it, just in case:

“I’m here.”

Minutes later, a new comment appeared.

“The pier’s still waiting.”

The pier. The one from his profile picture. The one in his coastal town five states away.

8— The Journey

It was reckless. Impulsive. Completely unlike me. But two days later, I was on a bus headed east, clutching my phone like a compass.

The ride took fourteen hours. I barely slept. My mind replayed his voice, his laugh, the way he once said, “If you’re ever here, the ocean will know you.”

9 — The Pier

When I arrived, the town was smaller than I’d imagined. The pier was easy to find — stretching into a restless gray sea under a pale winter sky.

And there he was.

Sort of.

The man standing at the end of the pier looked like Evan, but older. Not just in years — in weight. In shadows under his eyes.

When he saw me, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You came,” he said.

10 — The Twist

We talked for hours. Or rather, I asked questions, and he answered in half-truths.

Finally, I said it: “You’re not him, are you?”

His eyes dropped. “I’m his brother.”

The words hit harder than the wind.

He told me Evan had died two years ago. Car accident. He’d found our messages while clearing out Evan’s things.

“I thought… maybe I could give you a goodbye he couldn’t,” he said.

I wanted to be angry. But I just felt hollow.

11 — The Last Message

Before I left, he handed me a sealed envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, in handwriting I knew by heart.

“If she ever finds you, tell her the waves never stopped.”

I read it over and over, the ink blurring as the ocean roared behind me.