The Last Screenshot on Her Phone

The house had fallen into silence since Sana’s funeral.

It was the kind of silence that sticks to the walls, clings to the curtains, and curls itself around your chest like a fist. Her room remained untouched — books still stacked on the nightstand, perfume bottles still half-used, and her phone… still on her bed, blinking occasionally as if waiting for her to return.

I didn’t want to touch it.

But I had to.

Our mother sat in the living room, her eyes sunken and quiet. She hadn’t spoken much since the accident. Sana had been the bright one — always reminding me to call, to eat, to live a little more. And now, all that was left was a lifeless screen that knew more about her final days than any of us did.

I picked up her phone and unlocked it with her fingerprint.

It worked on the first try. That almost broke me.

Notifications flooded in — missed calls, unsent messages, and hundreds of unread group chats. But something drew my eyes to the gallery. I opened the photo app and scrolled, hoping for some comfort, something familiar.

Then I saw it — her last screenshot.

Dated just a few hours before the accident.

I tapped on it, expecting maybe a meme, a recipe, or something random. But what I saw stopped me cold.

It was a screenshot of a note from her own phone.

A message — not addressed to anyone, but speaking to everyone.

“If you’re reading this, I’m probably not around anymore. Don’t worry, I didn’t plan this. Life just doesn’t give warnings sometimes. I just wanted to say a few things. To clear the noise. To leave something behind that actually makes sense.”

“To my brother — I know I was annoying. But I loved you, even when you ignored my calls. You were my safest place, even if you never knew it. Please don’t shut down after this. You still have a whole life to live, and someone needs to carry the light when I’m gone.”

“To my mother — I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. But I said I love you in a hundred little ways. Every cup of tea I made, every scarf I left folded on your bed. You were my world. I hope you remember that more than you remember today.”

“To anyone else reading this — don’t wait. Say what you mean. Love people loudly. Take silly photos. Laugh at dumb jokes. Life is short, and sometimes, we don’t get to plan our exits.”

“And if you miss me… just look up. I’ll be the weirdly shaped cloud trying to make you smile.”

My hands trembled as I stared at the screen.

It was like hearing her voice again — calm, knowing, warm.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run to her room and find her sitting there, rolling her eyes, telling me I was being dramatic. But all I had was this digital goodbye… typed with love, in quiet, lonely moments, and saved not in a diary, but a screenshot — like she knew someone would find it.

I walked out and handed the phone to my mother.

She read it in silence. Her fingers touched the screen like she was holding a piece of Sana herself. Then, for the first time in days, she smiled — not big, not bright, but real.

“She always knew what to say,” my mother whispered.

I nodded.

We printed that screenshot and framed it. It now sits in the hallway, between old family portraits and faded school certificates. Visitors always pause and read it. Some cry. Some smile.

All of them understand.

Sana’s final message wasn’t just a goodbye. It was a reminder — to love deeply, live loudly, and never leave your words unspoken.

And sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed, I look up at the sky —

and sure enough, there’s always that one cloud that looks a little like her.

Smiling.