The Voice Memos I Never Sent

The first voice memo was for Michael.

I remember recording it one evening while walking home. The sky had turned a soft indigo, and I’d just passed the coffee shop where we first met — not by fate, but because you knocked over my laptop with your messenger bag. You apologized, bought me a coffee, and the next thing I knew, we were building a life.

"Hey," I whispered into my phone, clutching it like a lifeline. "I saw the bench today — the one by the fountain. I almost sat there and waited. I don’t know why. I just... did. I thought maybe you'd show up again. Or maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like when you were still someone I trusted."

I never sent it.

The second was for my mom. She’s still alive. But it was meant for the version of her I wish I could talk to — the mother before the Alzheimer’s.

"Hi Mom," I said, my voice already cracking. "You used to call me your little planet, and you'd say the world revolved around me. Do you remember that? I don’t say it enough, but I miss being orbiting in your love. I miss your stories, the way you'd cry at commercials, and how you always knew when something was wrong — even before I did."

I recorded that one on her birthday.

Never sent it.

Then came Jamie.

We were best friends once. Thick as thieves, partners in crime, until one fight broke something so sacred, neither of us had the courage to fix it. I typed and deleted a dozen texts over the years. But it was the voice memo I saved in a folder titled “someday” that said it all.

"Jamie, I was angry. But mostly, I was scared. You told the truth, and I hated you for it. Not because you hurt me, but because you saw me. And maybe I wasn’t ready to be seen. If you ever hear this — I hope you know you mattered more than my pride."

I still have that memo. Five years old now. I relisten to it sometimes like it’s a message in a bottle I tossed into a digital ocean.

There was one for myself too.

"To the girl in the mirror," I said slowly, “you survived. You did. Even when you thought the darkness would devour you whole — you clawed your way out. I know you still doubt your worth. But you’re still here. You’re still standing. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough."

I cried after recording it. Not from sadness. But because for once, I believed it.

I’ve come to realize voice memos are the modern diary.

We pour our souls into 60-second snippets, speaking to ghosts, memories, alternate timelines. They’re easier than letters. Safer than confrontation. More personal than a journal. Every unsent memo is a piece of me I wasn’t ready to share — but couldn’t bear to lose either.

Some people bottle up their feelings in poems. Others in songs. I bottle mine in the cloud.

It’s funny, isn’t it? That the words we never send often say the most. They’re honest. Unfiltered. Raw.

They carry our truth in trembling syllables and stuttering breaths.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I sent them all. If I pressed "share" instead of "save." If I let the people I loved — and the ones I lost — hear what I couldn’t say in person.

Maybe it’s not about them hearing it.

Maybe it’s about me knowing I said it.

Out loud. Somewhere.

Even if the only one listening is me.

by by see you by wiki king