The Last Message You’ll Ever Read

A Strange Notification

Maya was scrolling through her phone late one night when a new notification appeared. It wasn’t from any app she recognized. The icon was blank, just a white square. The preview line read:

“This is the last message you’ll ever read.”

Her stomach tightened. At first, she assumed it was spam or some creepy chain text. But when she tapped it open, the message wasn’t generic—it was personal.

“Don’t take the 7:45 train tomorrow. Sit in the third row of the bus instead.”

The First Warning

Maya laughed nervously. A prank, surely. But the next morning, something about the words nagged at her. Instead of her usual train, she boarded the bus.

Halfway through the ride, the bus stopped at an intersection. Outside the window, she saw flashing lights—police cars, ambulances, fire engines. News spread quickly through passengers’ phones: a collision on the train tracks. The 7:45 had derailed.

Maya’s blood ran cold. The message hadn’t been a joke. It had saved her life.

More Than Coincidence

The following night, another notification appeared.

“Don’t answer your phone at 9:12. Let it ring.”

At exactly 9:12 p.m., her phone lit up with her boss’s number. She hesitated, tempted to ignore the message. But the memory of the train stopped her. She let the phone ring.

The next morning, her coworker whispered that the call had been a trap. Their boss was being investigated for fraud, and several employees who answered had unknowingly been recorded and implicated.

Maya shivered. Whoever—or whatever—was sending these messages wasn’t just predicting accidents. They were protecting her.

The Pattern Emerges

Night after night, the texts came. Some warnings were small: “Don’t eat the shrimp.” Others were huge: “Leave work early tomorrow.”

Every time she obeyed, disaster followed—food poisoning at the restaurant, an office fire sparked by faulty wiring. Each saved her.

But the tone of the messages slowly shifted. They became less like warnings and more like commands.

“Avoid Sarah. Don’t let her trust you.”

“Delete your bank account tomorrow.”

“Stop talking to your brother.”

Maya’s life shrank. Friends drifted. Family stopped calling. She lived only by the rules on her screen.

The Voice Behind the Words

One evening, she typed back: “Who are you?”

No response came.

The following night, a new message appeared:

“You already know. Stop asking.”

Her skin prickled. She stared at her reflection in the darkened phone screen. For a terrifying moment, she wondered if she was sending these to herself—from the future.

The Final Notification

On a stormy Friday, just after midnight, her phone lit up again.

“This is the last message you’ll ever read.”

It was the same sentence that had first appeared weeks ago. Her chest tightened. She waited for more, but nothing followed. Just those words.

Panic clawed at her. Was this the end? Had the protection run out?

The hours dragged by. Morning came. Noon. Evening. Maya survived each minute, heart pounding, eyes glued to her phone. No accident, no disaster struck.

By midnight, she laughed shakily. Maybe it had been a cruel joke after all. She was still alive.

Relieved, she picked up her phone to text her brother for the first time in weeks. But as the screen lit up, the blank white icon appeared again.

She thought the strange texts were warnings—lifelines saving her from accidents and betrayals. But each message pulled her further from the people she loved, until only the phone remained. When the final notification appeared, three chilling words ended everything: “Look behind you.”

The notification read:

“Look behind you.”

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