Technology & Future

It started with a typo.

Jaya had just installed the new MailMuse AI extension to help manage her overflowing inbox—part of a productivity kick after three months of remote work burnout. The app promised smart sorting, pre-drafted replies, and predictive alerts.

But what caught her eye that morning was an email draft she hadn’t written. It was addressed to her ex, Rishi.

Subject: I shouldn’t have walked out.

To: [email protected]

Draft saved: 6:14 AM

(not yet sent)

Her stomach dropped.

She hadn’t thought of Rishi in weeks. Maybe months. They’d broken up two years ago, over something messy and not entirely her fault. She hadn’t walked out, exactly. It had been mutual, or so she told herself.

She stared at the screen. The body of the email was blank. Just the subject line—like a whisper in digital form.

She clicked delete.

But it didn’t go away.

The next day, it reappeared—with the same subject and a new line:

I still remember the Sunday we made coffee in silence, and it felt like peace.

Jaya blinked. She hadn’t said that out loud. But she had thought it—two nights ago, while drinking tea alone in her kitchen. The morning light had hit her mug just like it used to back then.

She checked the app settings. Maybe it had pulled data from her notes app? Synced thoughts across devices? But there was nothing written anywhere. Nothing typed.

Only remembered.

Over the next week, more drafts appeared.

“No, I’m not okay.” (to her boss, who hadn’t asked)

“It’s not the distance, it’s the silence.” (to her sister)

“Happy Birthday. I didn’t forget—I just couldn’t say it.” (to her estranged father)

She hadn’t sent any of these. But they were... honest. Too honest.

MailMuse seemed to know what she wanted to say—but didn’t.

It felt like standing naked in a room full of unread messages.

One Friday night, she stayed up late deleting draft after draft. She cursed the app, uninstalled it, wiped her cache, and even changed her email password. Just in case.

But the next morning, a single draft remained.

Subject: You’re not as invisible as you think.

To: [email protected]

Draft saved: 5:03 AM

It was an email to herself.

And the body said:

Just because no one is checking on you doesn’t mean no one cares. You isolate, you deflect, you overwork. But you’re tired. Aren’t you? You miss connection. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

This inbox isn’t the problem. It’s the mirror.

– You. The version you keep muting.

She sat still for a long time.

She hadn’t told anyone how much she'd been struggling—not since her mom got sick last year. Not when the promotion passed her by. Not when her friend group grew quieter, older, busier.

She’d become the one who never replied.

Because replying meant admitting you needed people.

That day, she didn’t delete the draft.

She wrote back.

Not with dramatic confessions, but with something small:

“You’re right. I am tired. But I’m still here.”

– J.

Then, she reopened the draft to her sister.

She added:

“I miss our stupid inside jokes. Call me?”

And the one to her dad.

“Happy belated birthday. I hope you’re well.”

Then the one to Rishi:

“I hope you found someone who makes better coffee than me.”

She hit send.

One by one.

No miracles followed. No dramatic music. Just a few replies over the weekend.

Her sister sent a voice note that made her laugh until she cried.

Her dad replied with a thumbs-up and a photo of his dog.

Rishi didn’t reply. And that was okay.

What changed wasn’t the inbox.

It was her.

Because for once, her words weren’t just saved.

They were sent.

THE END