The Last “Online”

It didn't feel particularly memorable the last time I saw her name appear on my phone.

It was a typical evening.

I was partly sleepy, lying on my bed, scrolling with one hand while feigning indifference. For a moment, my heart did what it always did around her when her name, "Online," showed in the corner.

It leaped.

I didn't message her, though.

Not because I was unwilling to...

I didn't want to appear needy.

Because I promised myself that she would message me first if she wanted to talk.

That was my pride speaking.

Pride is also a silent poison.

After two minutes, she disconnected.

I waited for her to return while foolishly staring at the screen.

"Tomorrow," I muttered, tossing the phone away.

It always seemed safe to wait until tomorrow.

When I woke up the following morning, I heard my mother's uncertain, trembling voice.

"Kefayat, get up."

She appeared to be carrying something too heavy in her chest as I opened my eyes.

"What took place?" I inquired.

She took a while to respond. She took a seat next to me and held my hand as if I were a young child.

"It's Sara," she murmured.

For a second, my heart stopped.

"She died last night."

My brain would not grasp the statement, so I unintentionally laughed.

"What?" I asked. "No, that isn't feasible."

However, my mother's eyes remained unchanged.

At that moment, reality struck like a blow.

My hands began to tremble.

As if I could use Wi-Fi to undo death, I immediately grabbed up my phone.

I launched WhatsApp.

There was still her profile photo.

When was she last seen?

It was yesterday.

I selected her talk. The messages were outdated. a few months old. brief responses. talks that are dry. Broken times.

I didn't care, though.

I entered:

"Sara, please respond."

It was fulfilled.

Just one tick.

Next, two.

Knowing that your communication was received by them is the cruelest thing in the world.

However, they never will.

I typed once more:

"Please. I apologize. I was unaware.

delivered.

observed.

And more than anything, I was devastated by that "seen."

since it indicated that her phone had been opened by someone else.

My statements were seen by someone else.

Not her.

I sat on my bed doing the same thing repeatedly for two hours.

typing. Typing and deleting, shedding tears.

I'm pleading with a blank screen to return the person I never truly loved.

I couldn't stop thinking about last night.

when she was on the internet.

while she was still living.

when she was given two minutes.

I have two minutes to say anything.

Even merely

"Hi. Are you alright?

Even merely

"I'm missing you."

Even merely

"I am present."

However, I said nothing.

since I wanted to prevail.

Win what?

A contest of ego?

A fictitious "who messages first" contest?

She was gone now.

And I came to a terrible realization.

You don't always lose people gradually.

Sometimes you abruptly lose them.

Your unsent message is all that's left.

Her father made a Facebook post three days later.

Just a picture.

Sara grinned.

He scribbled the following beneath it:

You still have the option to tell her anything you've wanted to.

Make a prayer for her.

I've read that post ten times.

I then wrote the message I never sent in my notes app.

I believed I had "tomorrow" for the message.

Sara, last night I came across you online.

I wanted to send a message.

But like a fool, I said nothing.

I had no idea that those were your final two minutes on the planet.

I'm not sure whether you ever waited for me to speak.

I did, however, wait for you.

I did it every time.

I apologize for being late.

I apologize for being arrogant.

Please be aware of this if paradise has internet access:

I cherished you.

I simply didn't say it in time.

I still open WhatsApp every night now.

Not because I anticipate a response.

However, her name is still there.

And occasionally, I swear, like a ghost on the screen, I can still feel her final "online."

And I've discovered something that is painful to acknowledge:

Losing someone is not the most depressing thing.

The most depressing thing is realizing...

A recollection might have been preserved.

One sentence would have been sufficient.

You didn't either.