Unsent

He stared at the phone screen, thumbs hovering above the keyboard.

The message had been typed and deleted five times already. Every version felt wrong — too soft, too late, too honest, too full of regret. And yet, none of them felt like enough.

At the top of the screen was a name he hadn’t spoken aloud in almost two years: Zoya.

She had been a chapter that never ended. A sentence that still lingered in his mind. A song that always started, but never played through.

And tonight, she came back again — not in real life, but in his dream. Same bookstore. Same laugh. Same sudden vanishing.


---

They weren’t lovers. Not officially. Not in the way the world would recognize.
But their bond had felt real. Maybe too real to survive reality.

They talked every night for eight months — sometimes until dawn. They had matching playlists, unspoken inside jokes, and that strange closeness where two souls understand each other without having to explain.

And then it ended.


---

He scrolled up to read their old messages.
She had sent pictures of her dog, late-night memes, her messy handwriting, voice notes when she was too tired to type.
He remembered how she hated the sound of her recorded voice — but sent the notes anyway because she knew he liked them.

Their last conversation was short. Cold.

> Zoya: “I don’t want to wait for someone who’s unsure.”
Him: [no reply]



Not because he didn’t feel something.
But because he didn’t know what to do with it.

She was real. Grounded. Bright. He was unsure, anxious, lost.

So, he let silence answer for him.


---

He whispered to no one, “I thought we had time.”

Maybe the biggest lie people tell themselves is that they’ll always have more time.


---

He typed again:

> Hey… I know it’s been a long time. But I never got to say the things I should have said when you were still here, still close, still maybe mine. I’ve thought about you more than I want to admit. And if there’s even the smallest chance you still think about me too… I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. I miss us. Whatever we were. Whatever we could’ve been.



He paused, staring at the words.

Then hit Backspace.

Deleted every word.

Locked the phone.

He couldn’t do it.


---

Across the city, Zoya sat curled in a blanket, sipping lukewarm tea.
She had her tablet open and was scrolling through her photo gallery.
One photo made her stop: her in a bookstore, holding a book and laughing mid-sentence.
He had taken that picture without asking.
She had secretly loved it.

It was still her favorite photo — because it was the only one where she looked truly happy and didn’t know someone was watching.


---

She sighed. Two years.

People had come and gone.

But none of them filled the quiet space he had left behind.
Not even her current boyfriend, who was kind and gentle, but not… him.

She opened their old chat. Still no new message.

She whispered to herself, “Just one word. That’s all it would take.”

But her phone remained still.


---

Back in his room, he picked up a small notebook. Flipped to the last page.

That’s where he wrote the unsent messages.
He had written to her every month. Some long. Some one-liners. Some just her name.

Tonight, he added another.

> You asked me once what scared me more — losing you, or disappointing you. I didn’t answer then. But the truth is… both scared me equally. So I chose silence, and ended up doing both.




---

He closed the notebook.

Walked to the window.

Rain had started. Quiet, steady. Not dramatic — just there, like a memory you forgot you were carrying.


---

If he had sent the message, what would she have done?

Cried?

Ignored it?

Called back?

Or simply smiled at the closure?

He would never know.

Because he would never send it.


---

And she would never know how much space she still took in his life.

How he still checked her profile every month.
Still noticed the new photos.
Still remembered her favorite quote about stars and scars.


---

Some people don’t leave.
They just become quieter inside you.


---

That night, they both dreamed of each other again.

Different cities. Different hearts. But the same ache.