"The Last Voicemail

M Mehran

Not the dramatic, echoing kind you hear in movies. Just a regular bzzzt on Sarah’s phone, vibrating across the café table as she sipped her too-hot latte and stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen.

One new voicemail.

She frowned. No missed call. That was strange.

Her thumb hovered over the voicemail icon. Something about it made her stomach flutter—intuition, maybe. Or dread. Or both.

Click.

> “Hey, baby. It’s me. Listen... I know I messed up. I know you probably don’t want to hear my voice right now, but just—just listen, okay?”



Sarah’s breath caught.

It was Jason.

But Jason was dead.

Two years ago. Motorcycle accident. Midnight ride. He wasn’t wearing his helmet. She hadn’t spoken to him that night, hadn’t answered his call. They’d been fighting. She was tired of the disappearances, the broken promises, the unspoken apologies.

She hadn’t picked up. Not that time.

> “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night. I should’ve. I was gonna. I bought those stupid cinnamon rolls you like, from that gas station on 5th. Remember? The ones you said were ‘a heart attack wrapped in cellophane’? I was gonna make coffee and say sorry, the right way, this time.”



She blinked hard. The coffee went cold between her fingers.

> “But then I chickened out. I parked outside. I saw the lights on in the kitchen. You were playing that Bon Iver song—you always play it when you’re mad. So I sat there like a coward. I was gonna come up. I swear I was.”



Her hands were shaking now. Her laptop dimmed into sleep.

> “Then I got on the bike. Just... to think. I figured I’d drive a little. Get my head clear. But the thing is, Sarah...”



The voice cracked. She hadn’t heard him cry in years. Not even at his mother’s funeral.

> “The thing is, I never made it home.”



A pause.

She felt the world still.

> “I don’t know how this is getting to you. Maybe it’s some glitch. Maybe it’s a miracle. But if you're hearing this... I love you. I always loved you. Even when I was too proud or too drunk to say it. I was stupid. But you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”



Static flared.

> “Forgive me, if you can.”



Click.

The message ended.

Sarah sat frozen in the café, the sound of coffee cups and casual laughter crashing around her like a storm.

She played it again.

Same words. Same ache.

She called the number back. Disconnected. She called her phone company. They had no record of any voicemail. The timestamp was blank. No metadata. Nothing.

She wasn’t sure what she believed. Ghosts? Technology glitching out two years late? Some buried audio file reanimating from the ether?

But that night, she dug out the shoebox under her bed. The one she hadn’t opened in months. Inside were memories—ticket stubs, Polaroids, one of his old flannel shirts that still smelled like pine and motor oil.

And taped to the inside lid, a photo of them laughing on a beach in Santa Cruz. Her head thrown back. His arm around her. Sunlight like a halo.

She whispered into the silence of her apartment, “I forgive you.”

A breeze stirred the curtains.

She never heard the message again.

But every Sunday since, she walks to the gas station on 5th, buys a cinnamon roll, makes coffee, and plays that Bon Iver song.

Just in case he’s listening.