The Last Notification

The Last Notification

It was 2:13 a.m. when my phone lit up on the nightstand. I rolled over, squinting against the glow, half expecting it to be one of those useless spam texts. But when I read the name on the screen, my breath caught in my throat.

“New message from Michael.”

I sat up so fast that my blanket slipped to the floor. My chest thudded with disbelief. Michael. My best friend since middle school. The one whose funeral I had attended six months ago.

The rational part of my brain scrambled for explanations—maybe his account had been hacked, maybe someone finally got access to his password. But another part, the irrational part, whispered: What if?

Hands trembling, I opened the notification.

Michael: You there?

That was it. Two words. Simple, casual, almost the way he used to text me every night when we were teenagers, just to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep during a late-night gaming session.

I didn’t reply. Couldn’t. My pulse was pounding so hard I thought my neighbors might hear it. But after a minute, another bubble appeared.

Michael: I miss those nights. You remember? Halo until sunrise. Pizza rolls that burned the roof of our mouths.

I dropped my phone on the bed as though it had turned scalding hot. There was no way. Nobody else would know that detail. It wasn’t in any eulogy, not on any social media post. Just ours.

My first instinct was to call his mom. But what would I say? “Hey, your dead son is texting me”? No. She was still grieving. She didn’t need this.

Instead, I typed. My fingers shook so badly I had to correct every word.

Me: Who is this? How do you know about that?

The reply was instant, as if he’d been waiting.

Michael: It’s me. I never left.

The days that followed were a blur of dread and obsession. Every night around the same time—between 2 and 3 a.m.—the messages would come. Little things at first. Inside jokes. Memories only we shared. He mentioned the dent in my car from senior year, the scar on my knee from falling off his skateboard, the nickname he gave my first girlfriend that nobody else knew.

I tried every rational explanation. I scoured forums about ghost accounts and digital afterlives. I contacted the platform’s support team, but all they said was, “We’ll investigate.”

Still, every message sounded exactly like him.

And then, one night, he asked the question that froze my blood.

Michael: Why didn’t you answer my call that night?

I stared at the screen, heart plummeting. That night. The night of the accident. I had been playing guitar with my headphones on. My phone buzzed on the desk, but I ignored it. I figured I’d call him back later. Later never came.

I forced my fingers to respond.

Me: I didn’t hear it in time. I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so sorry.

The typing dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. Finally:

Michael: I was scared. The road was so dark. I just wanted to hear your voice one last time.

My vision blurred with tears. This wasn’t possible. And yet, every word sliced deeper than any living person could.

I wanted it to stop. I wanted to block the account, throw my phone in the river, anything. But the thought of cutting him off again felt unbearable. He was right there—Michael, my best friend, my brother in everything but blood—and I couldn’t do it.

The final message came a week later.

I was lying awake, staring at the phone, waiting for it. At 2:28 a.m., the screen lit up.

Michael: It’s almost time.

My stomach dropped.

Me: Time for what?

Michael: For you to let me go.

My throat closed. I typed back furiously, desperate, childish:

Me: No. Don’t. Please don’t leave me again.

For a long while, there was nothing. I thought maybe this was the end, the cruelest silence of all. But then the final message appeared.

Michael: You’ve carried me long enough. Live for both of us now. Goodbye, brother.

And just like that, the account disappeared. Profile photo gone. Messages vanished. As if he’d never existed in the digital world at all.

In the weeks since, I haven’t received another notification at 2 a.m. My rational brain tells me it was impossible, that maybe it was some cruel hoax I’ll never understand. But my heart—the part of me that aches every time I pass the places we used to haunt—knows it was him.

Because when I finally answered his last call, even through a screen, I felt a peace I hadn’t known since the day he died.

Sometimes, I still wake up around 2:13 a.m. out of habit. I glance at my phone, half-hoping, half-dreading. But the screen stays dark.

And for the first time in months, that silence feels right.