The Last Message Wasn’t Meant for Me

At 2:17 a.m., my phone buzzed with a notification that shouldn’t have existed.

Unknown Contact: I’m sorry. I ran out of time.

I stared at the screen, heart thudding, half-asleep and half-aware that something was wrong. The number had no country code, no profile picture. Just empty space where a person should be.

I typed back.

Me: Who is this?

Three dots appeared instantly.

Then disappeared.

No reply.

I tried calling. The call failed before it even rang.

I told myself it was spam. A prank. One of those creepy automated messages people post about online.

Still, I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I checked my phone again. The message was still there. No follow-up. No explanation.

On my way to work, I stopped at a café I’d never visited before. The sign outside read “Second Chances”, written in chalk like it could be erased at any moment.

Inside, the barista froze when she saw me.

Her smile collapsed.

“Oh,” she whispered. “You’re… early.”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

She swallowed. “Never mind. What can I get you?”

I ordered coffee and tried to shake the unease crawling up my spine. As she handed me the cup, she leaned closer.

“If you get another message,” she said quietly, “don’t answer it.”

I laughed, too loudly. “Why would you say that?”

Her eyes flicked to my phone. “Because last time, you didn’t listen.”

I left without touching the coffee.

At 11:43 a.m., my phone buzzed again.

Unknown Contact: You shouldn’t be here yet.

My hands shook.

Me: You texted me first. Who are you?

This time, the reply came slowly.

Unknown Contact: I’m you. Or what’s left of you.

I felt sick.

Me: This isn’t funny.

Unknown Contact: I know. That’s why it keeps happening.

A memory surfaced—vague, slippery. A hospital hallway. The smell of antiseptic. Someone crying, but not loudly.

I typed one word.

Me: Happening?

The reply came with a timestamp from three days in the future.

Unknown Contact: You die on Friday.

I didn’t go to work after that.

I stayed home, locked every door, closed every curtain. I searched the number online. Nothing. No carrier. No record.

At 6:02 p.m., another message arrived.

Unknown Contact: This is the part where you don’t believe me.

Me: If you’re me, prove it.

The response came instantly.

Unknown Contact: Check the scar on your left knee. The one from when you were nine. You tripped running to answer the phone. It was your dad calling.

My breath caught.

No one knew that.

My father died before social media. Before stories were shared.

Before regrets could be archived.

Me: How do I die?

There was a long pause.

Then—

Unknown Contact: That depends on whether you read this message or not.

Thursday night, I dreamed of alarms that wouldn’t stop ringing.

Friday came anyway.

I avoided cars. Stairs. Sharp objects. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep.

At 4:59 p.m., my phone buzzed one last time.

Unknown Contact: I tried to warn myself too.

Me: Warn me about what?

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Unknown Contact: About thinking death is always loud.

The message timestamp changed.

Now.

I felt it then—the tightness in my chest, the quiet pressure, like a hand gently closing.

As I collapsed, my phone slipped from my fingers and landed screen-up.

A new notification appeared.

Unknown Contact: I’m sorry. I ran out of time.

When I woke up, it was 2:17 a.m.

My phone buzzed.

A message waited on the screen.

Unknown Contact: I’m sorry. I ran out of time.

And without understanding why, my hands moved on their own.

I typed back.

Me: Who is this?

Author’s Note :

Sometimes the scariest loops aren’t time loops—they’re the ones we live in every day, ignoring the warnings we send ourselves.