The Message I Received 10 Minutes After My Friend Died

My name is Mozaki, and this story begins on the day my best friend Zain died.

I remember everything about that evening—the color of the sky, the smell of rain, even the quiet sound of my old ceiling fan. It was 6:42 PM, and I was sitting alone in my room, scrolling through old pictures of me and Zain. We had grown up together. Every stupid fight, every shared dream, every late-night talk—he was a part of all of it.

Then my phone rang.

I looked at the screen and froze.

It was Zain’s sister, Ayesha.

She never called me unless something serious had happened. The moment I answered, her breath broke on the other end.

“Adeel…” She stopped. “Please sit down.”

My heart dropped into my stomach.

“What happened?” I asked, already afraid of the answer.

She inhaled, and her voice shook.

“Zain… he didn’t make it.”

I stopped breathing.

Didn’t… make it?

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

“He collapsed at home. Heart attack. We took him to the hospital. They tried everything, Adeel… but…”

The rest of her words blurred.

My ears rang. My hands went numb.

I felt like the world around me was sinking underwater.

Zain.

My best friend.

The person I thought I’d grow old laughing with.

Gone in a single, cruel moment.

When the call ended, I sat frozen, staring blankly at the wall. The room felt too quiet. Too still. Grief has a strange way of making everything heavy—even breathing.

I don't remember how long I sat like that. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time didn’t feel real.

But exactly ten minutes later, my phone lit up again.

A new message.

From Zain.

For a full second, I couldn’t move. My chest tightened, and my fingers trembled as I unlocked the screen.

The message read:

“Don’t come yet.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Don’t come yet?

What does that mean?

Who sent that?

I stared at the words again and again, hoping they would somehow change. They didn’t.

This message was sent after he died.

Ten minutes after Ayesha said he was gone.

Ten minutes after the world had already broken apart.

My hands were shaking when I replied:

“Zain? Who is this? Please answer.”

Two blue ticks appeared.

Delivered.

Seen.

But no reply came.

I tried calling his number.

One ring.

Then voicemail.

It felt like my chest was being crushed. I didn’t know whether to be terrified or hopeful or devastated. Every emotion hit at the same time.

Was it a scheduled message?

A glitch?

Someone using his phone?

Something else entirely?

I didn’t know.

But I knew Zain.

He wasn’t the type of person who scheduled messages.

He barely scheduled his life.

I stood up suddenly, grabbed my jacket, and rushed out the door. The drive to his house felt like a blur. My vision was wet; I kept wiping my eyes just to see the road.

When I reached, the house was filled with relatives, sobs, and people sitting silently with tissues in their hands. The kind of silence that feels louder than noise.

His mother hugged me, her tears soaking into my shoulder. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

But I didn’t tell anyone about the message.

Not yet.

That night, after everyone had left, I drove home with a heaviness sitting on my chest. When I entered my room, I immediately picked up my phone again.

No new messages.

Just the last one from him.

“Don’t come yet.”

For a long time, I stared at that text.

And slowly… something clicked inside me.

Zain knew me better than anyone else.

He knew that losing someone could push me into dark thoughts.

He knew I overthink.

He knew grief breaks me in dangerous ways.

“Don’t come yet” suddenly felt less like a warning

—and more like a plea.

Don’t follow him.

Don’t lose yourself.

Don’t give up.

Not now.

Not because of him.

Maybe it was a glitch.

Maybe it was a delayed message.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

But maybe…

just maybe…

when someone loves you deeply, the universe finds a way to let their voice reach you one more time.

Even if it’s only three words.

It’s been months since Zain left the world, but that message still sits pinned at the top of our chat. I read it on days when breathing feels hard. On nights when grief sits beside me like a shadow.

“Don’t come yet.”

Sometimes, when the silence gets too loud, I whisper back:

“I won’t, Zain. Not yet.”

Because somehow…

in the most impossible moment of my life…

my best friend saved me one last time.